


Yours to Keep

by charmtion



Series: Querencia [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Actually Quite a Serious Backstory Amongst all the Smut, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Confessions, F/M, Feelings, Festive Edition™, Flashbacks, Flying Home for Christmas, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, Mild Kink, Orgasm Denial, PTSD, Secrets, Spanking, Swearing, Sweet Jonsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21686101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: ‘Wishes he could talk about it. Knows heshouldtalk about it. But he can’t — not now, not yet. Blueish weight of years. Mm, and blue doesn’t belong here. Red and green and gold. Christmas. Family. Holidays. Happiness. Blue doesn’t belong here at all. So he bites his tongue. Black-out in his brain. Fucks her slow, steady, solidly; till they’re both limbs spilt haphazard across the bed.’Christmas. 1 year on. Jon and Sansa are homeward bound. Family reunions. His weird cousin-aunt. Daddy issues. High drama. Champagne. Kisses under the mistletoe — tears, too. Happy (complicated, chaotic) Christmas! You ready? I’m not.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: Querencia [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1556566
Comments: 165
Kudos: 167





	1. Central Line

**Author's Note:**

> > High drama. History. Hotness. Healing. Let’s _gooooo_ … 💥

Journey’s been perfect. Plain sailing. View from the plane-window pretty as the adverts stretched along the airport terminal. Patches of countryside. Clear, blue sky. Sweep of river as they narrow down through the wispy cloud. Perfect. Peaceful. But he’s looking out the window as if it’s a scene straight from Dante’s _Inferno_.

Never seen a man grip an armrest so tightly. Knuckles showing white. Balks when she touches the back of his hand. Softens soon as he realises it’s her. Twists his fingers between her own; takes up the same bruising grip. Won’t say it. Won’t admit he’s nervous. Doesn’t have to. She knows. He knows she knows. But he still won’t say it.

She hasn’t pushed him to. A little tentative about what his reaction would be. Half-surprised he’s even on the plane. Next to her. Turning the skin of her fingers crimson as her hair. Jaw so tight she can see the line of it moving beneath his beard. Crosses her arm over herself, reaches out to lay her palm to his cheek. Balks again. Then blinks, leans into her touch. Melts her heart a little, the way he does that. Makes her ache. Makes her want to lean over, smother him in kisses, tell him he’s _okay_ — 

“I _am_ okay.” Unlocks his gaze from the plane-window; turns it on her. “Promise.”

Leans forward. “It’s going to be fine. All of it.”

“Sounds twee,” he says softly. “But as long as you’re there it _will_ be fine.”

“You’re right,” she murmurs. “That _does_ sound twee.”

Breathless chuckle against her lips. “You’re a bad girl, Miss Stark.”

“I’m _your_ bad girl.” Rolls his bottom lip between her teeth. “Mm, your good girl, too.”

Kiss deepens for half a breath. Feels the shape of a moan on his tongue. Heat blooming between her thighs. His fingers moving from her hand to wrap round her wrist. Twist of ink-dark curls as she scratches softly as his nape.

Break apart at the chime of the seatbelt-sign. Captain’s voice. _Cabin crew prepare for landing_. Settle back in their seats. Knowing smiles. Bitten lips. Dark eyes. His fingers still circling her wrist. Promise of what’s to come. Mm, she can hardly wait.

*

Follows her out through customs. Admires the view. Yoga pants. Grey hoodie that rides just above the small of her back. Mm, takes his mind off things for a moment. Knows that underneath the black lycra there’s a handprint there. Sunset-pink against pale, plump flesh. Parting gift before they left their life in the city behind for the holidays. Already aching to give her a matching set. Deserves it for dragging him back here.

Still can’t believe he agreed to it. Stark family Christmas — what the fuck was he _thinking_? Wasn’t thinking. Was staring up at her as she rode him to high heaven. Sultry slow rolls of her hips as she gripped the headboard, bit her lip to hide the worries whizzing round her brain. He saw them, though. Felt them. Flipped her over. Pinned her wrists above her head. Stared at her with a brow quirked till she told him. Asked him. How could he refuse her _anything_ with her fuck-me eyes and furrowed brow? Jesus fuck.

Pushes through the crowd that swells around them. Loses sight of her for half a breath. Panics till he spots her again. Streak of fire amongst the winter shades of travellers. Black. Blue. Polished-leather commuters elbowing their way onto the train. Told her they should’ve got an earlier flight. Overrode him. Somehow she seems to have made a habit of that. Somehow he doesn’t even mind. Somehow he _likes_ it.

A lot’s happened — _changed_ — in the last year. Watches her swaying with the motion of the train now as he considers it. Started off as a bit of fun. Her. Him. All of it. Stayed that way for a while — or they _pretended_ it did, at least. Rough sex. Hard orgasms. Never slept in each other’s beds. Then one night all the pretence fell away. _Peace of mind_. Mm, gave each other that. Slept curled up together. Things changed after that. 

Little things. Extra toothbrush in the mug next to his. Hairband tangled in the plug of the tub. Almond milk in his fridge. Bottle of Glenfiddich tucked under her bed. Plans after work. Someone to talk through lecture-points with. Cheap wine. Craft ale. That weekend on the coast. Sat on the beach at sunrise watching the ships sail toward the city. Little things. Moments. Mm, a million little moments that are all _theirs_.

Catches hold of his own thoughts. Shakes the stupid dreamy little smile off his face. Knits the frown back on instead. Flexes his fingers on the strap of his suitcase. _Still_ can’t believe he agreed to this. Dragged away from the city. His work. His lovely, luxurious apartment. Back to breathing the foggy air of the country of his birth. Rough red fabric scratching through his jeans. All because of _her_ —

Soft laughter breaks him from his inner blustering. Looks across to her. Laughing. At _him_. At his clearly _obvious_ thoughts. He scowls at her. Fire-streak hair just begging to be wrapped round his fist. Jagged back. Matching set. Jesus _fuck_ , will he gift her exactly that soon as they get off this bloody train. Meets her eyes. Flexes his fingers on the suitcase-strap again. Her lips part. Promise in the gaze he hooks on her now. Slow smile as he watches her start to burn up on the rough, red train-seat. Lets her burn. Deserves it for dragging him back here. 

*

Hot. So very, fucking _hot_. Shouldn’t be. Air is at best lukewarm down in the belly of the underground. Biting breeze as the train thunders in. Bathes everyone packed on the platform in a chill wave. But she’s _boiling_. Feels her skin prickling against the sleeves of her sweater. Strand of hair lifted by the breeze resettling on her brow. Pushes it back behind her ear. Follows the press of the crowd onto the carriage.

Packed. Maybe he was right. Should’ve got an earlier flight. Jostled between men in suits. Briefcases bumping her hips. Pointed heels catching at her ankles. Wrestles her way to the opposite doors. Presses back into the slight alcove. He cuts his way through the scene of her struggle. Effortlessly. Makes her huff beneath her breath. _Always_ so effortless. Energy. Bearing. Poise. _That_ frown. Whatever it is — people just seem to get out of his fucking way.

Except her. She likes to stand directly _in_ it. Especially when he’s stressed or growling about something. Will wait till his back is turned. By the time he spins round at her whisper she’s half out of her clothes. Soon out of the other half. His grasping hands see to that. Lost count of the lacy things he’s ruined. That pretty pearl-coloured blouse she sulked for a week about till he turned up at her door one night. Blouse in hand. Neat little stitches when she pushed it inside-out to inspect it. His own handywork. Surprised her all over again that night. 

Been doing that for the best part of a year now. Surprising her. True, she disliked him soon as she set eyes on him all that time ago. Hated him till she realised the hate was actually hunger. Mm, till he fucked all the hurt out of her. Cleared her head. Made her think. Make amends. Put her on a plane last Christmas. Helped her pick out a gift for her mother to take with her. Was waiting at the airport when she got back couple weeks later. Took her to bed soon as they got in. Made her come till she couldn’t stand up. _Fuck_.

Glimmer of the same memory in his eyes now. She can tell. Softness at the very edges of those smoke-grey depths. Palm rasped over his beard before he puts the same hand to her cheek. Thumb stroking down her cupid’s bow. Bites her lip. Gazes up at him, humming beneath her breath. Yes, he’s sarcastic. Snobby. Snide sometimes. But God is he _sweet_. Sweet enough that occasionally she has to rile him a bit to rough him up a little. Because she still needs handling. Hard fingers on her throat. Growls in her ear. Pink prints on her arse the next morning. Mm, ache in her — 

“You _bad_ girl.” His lips at her ear suddenly; whiskey-warm voice chasing shivers down her spine. “Keep that up and I’ll have to get a hold of you in front of all these people.”

Hums deep in her throat. “ _Please_.”

“Behave yourself, Miss Stark.”

Hint of strength behind the softness of his voice. Wet. Instantly. And hot. Still so fucking _hot_. Thumb slipping from her cheek to the dip beneath her chin now. Fingers feathering her throat. Gentlest of squeezes and she has to bite down hard on her bottom lip. Moan comes out as a half-breathy gasp instead. Shuffle in the crowd around them. Hasty rearrangement of newspapers. Averted eyes. He looks at her. Smiles. Slowly. Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_. Ache between her thighs deepens. _Behave yourself_. Hot, bothered, hungry — right now, she’s really not sure she _can_ behave herself. 

*

Enjoying this. Momentary lapse of the cool, calm, collected mood she’s been in ever since they packed into the taxi yesterday. Passport in hand. Suitcase elegantly stacked atop his in the trunk. Scarlet hair swept up in an artlessly elegant bun. Curls escaping to frame her face. Velvet cheeks rouged by the icy city air. Mm, they’re even more flushed now. But not from the air, icy or otherwise. Makes him forget his nerves. Worries. Irritations. Drifted away from him in the same instant she made that little murmur. Jesus _fuck_.

Tube empties out a little at the next station. Gives them a bit of room to adjust. Suitcases at their feet. Her bending over to fiddle with her shoelaces. He watches her placidly. Eyes flicking up just in time to see a man ogling her backside. White-hot, the flash that pierces his belly. Rounds on him. Scowl so menacing the man ducks back behind his paperback, fingers clutching at the turned-back pages. She bobs up again. Bright cheeks. Smile falling as she looks from him to paperback-man.

Glares back at him. Tells him off with the sapphire-sparkle slanted hard at the edges of her eyes. Lips pressed together in a firm line. Shrugs, keeps his scowl. Jealousy. He’s trying hard to control it. He really _is_ — but sometimes his control slips. Turns him all primeval again. It’s an ugly thing. Has been ever since their first night together. 

First class after all he could do was stare at the love-bite on her throat. _His_ bite on her throat. Bright as a ruby. She didn’t even try to hide it. No scarf. No carefully-swept strand of hair. Still remembers how his heckles pricked up soon as James-Jeffrey-What’s-His-Name leant forward, blinked down at it from the back-row. All frowny and confused at who might’ve left it. _Me_ , he wanted to roar up at the seats. _Me, me, me_. Didn’t though. Schoolboy crush — but he had to act the adult just then.

Adult lost out to the schoolboy a few times after that, though. Jealousy reared its ugly head. Made him square shoulders with a leery drunk or two on nights out at dingy dive-bars. Shout at someone who brushed a hand over her hair on the subway. Nearly faint when he found her roommate’s brother in her bed one morning. Hasn’t seen Loras round there since, come to think of it. Got to the point where she barged into his office one day. Said enough was enough. _No more_. He listened. Like he’s listening now.

“Sorry.”

Holds his hands up. She stares at him for a minute. Hard. Then steps forward. Leans her brow against his lips. He whispers it again. _Sorry_. Noses her hair. Closes his eyes as the train rocks them to and fro. Relaxes — for the first time since he left his apartment to fly back to this fucking place. 

*

Dark when they emerge from the Tube station. Struggle up the steps. Legs finally buckling a little as they try and give into the strains of the day. Grits her teeth. Pounds her feet against the concrete a little more purposefully. Ducks onto the brow of the street. Icy air on her cheeks. Feels good to breeze away a bit of the burn from her blood. Closes her eyes, breathes it in. Looks left and right once she’s blinked them open again.

“Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_.”

“Quite the welcome, Miss Stark.”

She whirls on him. “What line did we catch?”

“Central.”

Jabs an elegantly-manicured fingernail at him. “ _Your_ fault.”

“What is?”

Curls to a fist as she strikes the air. “Distracted me!” Huffs it as if it’s obvious. “We were meant to change onto the _Northern_ line.” Checks her wrist-watch — still can’t believe she owns one, to be honest — and glowers. “We’ll never get there before check-in closes now.” Scrolls through her emails. Exclaims. “I am _not_ paying fifty pounds for late check-in! But Mum’s not expecting us till — ” 

“My flat’s just round the corner.”

Says it so evenly she turns. Blinks at him stupidly. “You have a _flat_ here?”

“Family-owned.” Gives half a shrug. “Not there now, obviously. Empty most of the year.” Plunges a hand into his pocket. “Got the key here somewhere.”

Watches him as he searches. His eyes skyward, biting his bottom lip. Triumphant smile as he comes up with a single silver key. Elegant leather keyring embossed with some odd circular pattern. Crimson on black. Gives it a little shake to make it jingle. Smile on his face now. Softness in his eyes. And _fuck_ , it’s like she can breathe again. Because just then she was tense. Trembling. Terrified that her perfectly-planned trip was about to unravel. _Fuck_. Probably past time to admit she’s nervous, too.

Doesn’t need to. He knows. She knows he knows. Steps into her space now. Invades it. Throws her in his shadow. It feels good. Feels so fucking _good_ when he winds down her nerves by making her feel small, _sheltered_. Tips her face up. Lips parted. Eyes half-closed. Wordlessly asking. He skates a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Circles her chin with a thumb. Pushes it against her bottom lip.

“Think you need to relax.” Smile sweetens as she opens her mouth, nips at the tip of his thumb. “Hmm, think you _really_ need to come, Sansa Stark.”

Sucks on it. Very slightly. Very slowly. “Mm, _please_.”

Dark smoke, the gaze he’s got on her. Pulls his thumb free. Traces the wet print across her bottom lip. Swoops down and catches her mouth in a kiss that leaves her breathless. Burning. _Bursting_. Different kind of tension now. Knots in her belly. Heat blooming between her thighs. Hips aching to be nipped at by fingertips. Spine arching to push her belly into his. He pulls back from her lips. Smirking now.

“Let’s go. _Now_. Before I take you in the fucking street.”

Doesn’t need to be told twice. Funny how her legs were aching just a minute ago. Threatening to give out. Mm, strange — she’s practically running now. Tripping over her own feet in her haste to keep up with his long strides. Jingle of that key making her mouth water as if she’s one of Pavlov’s fucking dogs. Doesn’t care. Keeps tripping-skipping-jogging toward the promise it’s sounding out like a bloody church-bell. Lord knows it’s time to pray.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I have MISSED our babies (after approx. 3 days away omg). Been pining to get back to this weird, wonderful world they inhabit. Easing you in gently. No drama _just_ yet. That will pick up soon enough — as will the character-count. Chapters a little bit longer than _Extra Credit_. Lots to pack in. Few useful pointers that I shall include here (rather than hodgepodge in various comment-replies like the last fic…) at the start this time:  
>   
> \- Head-canon ages: Jon is **32** ; Sansa is a postgrad so between **22** - **24**.  
> \- 1 year on from the events of _Extra Credit_ (Jon has neatly surmised the changes; thanks, prof)  
> \- All 5 chapters are written, but I will pace their dissemination out a little more — rather than flinging it at you every other day like with _Extra Credit_ **#sorrynotsorry**.  
> \- Time-frame: day before Christmas Eve to New Year’s Eve. Woo. Party. 🥂✨  
>   
> Anymore questions just hit me up. Leave a kudos, drop me a comment. Love it, hate it, get hot and bothered by it. I am excited to see what you all think and am anxiously imagining me _right now_ talking to an empty room so please give me a wave or a middle-finger or _something_. I see YOU. Over and out, honeys. 🍯❤️
> 
>  **N.B.** title (and upcoming angst) inspired by the wonderful [song of the same name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q0atlehWrsE) by my bois Sticky Fingers. 🥰


	2. Notting Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Trip down memory lane. Tumble on a leather sofa… 🔥👄

Neat streets. Black-iron gates. Pretty, pastel-painted houses. Feels strange to be back here. _Very_ strange. Treading the same pavement as he did in his teenage years. Looking up at the same ink-dark sky; same russet leaves stripped off the slim trees rustling underfoot. Remembers it well. This street. These houses. Their little black-iron gates, pretty pastel shades. Remembers the feelings, too. Freedom. Escape. Bit of space to just _breathe_. Funny how it doesn’t feel like that anymore.

Back then, it was a place to remake himself. Break away from everything. Start something new. Rose-coloured glasses, how he used to marvel at it. Now he can’t help but look at it differently. See it through older, wiser, bruised-up, beaten eyes. See it as the start of something else. Start of things slipping. Start of him struggling to get control on — on _anything_. Start of a long, difficult, fucking _dark_ pathway to where he is now. 

Heel of his hand pressed to his brow. Breathes through it all. Thoughts. Memories. Painful things he usually succeeds in keeping buried. Flooding back. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. Hasn’t thought of them in years. _Years_. But there they are. Blurring up the edges of his brain. Bursting behind his eyes. Contact. Chamber. _Click_ — 

Shakes his head minutely to be rid of them. _No_. Shrugs his shoulders. Adjusts the leather-strap of his bag like that’s the thing that’s bothering him. _No_. Takes a deep, shuddering breath. Starts to count. Slowly. Halfway to a hundred by the time his brain finally begins to quieten. Heartbeat thudding a little steadier in his chest. But he’s distracted. Eyes not quite focussing. Shoe scuffing the kerb as he steps up from the road. Scatters a bit of the leaf-mould gathered on its edge. Flies up into the air: fine red-gold spray. Like dust in the desert. _Fuck_.

“Jon?”

Grounded — _suddenly_ — by that voice. Life-ring in a rising tide. Rope thrown down over a mountainside. Grapples for it. Grasps it. Smooth, warm fingers twined between his own. Thumb rubbing the back of his hand. Breath tearing down into his lungs finally. Her eyes on his as she pulls him to a gentle stop. Warm and so, so blue. Could dive into them. Could _drown_ in them. Jesus _fuck_.

Makes a grab for her. Doesn’t know what he’s doing. Clumsy. Hand on the small of her back. Pulling her tight against him. Mouth smashing onto her own. Eyes closed and he’s kissing her — kissing her _desperately_. She can’t know. Can’t _possibly_ know what’s come over him. But she doesn’t balk. Doesn’t break from him. Kisses him back. Holds him through it. Fingertips scratching soft shapes on the nape of his neck. Hums his name beneath her breath till the lights stop flashing behind his eyes. 

“You okay?”

Doesn’t speak. Can’t speak. Not now. Not yet. Can only nod. Flex his fingers against her spine, stroke a soothing circle with his thumb. Blink open his eyes to find her gazing at him. More than a hint of worry pooled in those sapphire depths. But she doesn’t press him. Doesn’t push him. Just nods right back. Smallest little smile quirking up the corner of her mouth. Jesus _fuck_. Closes his eyes again. Leans his forehead to her own as he takes a breath that rattles his ribs.

*

Quiet the rest of the way. But he keeps his fingers twined between her own. Slows his stride so they walk in-step along the leafy streets. Past the pretty pastel houses. Posh cars shined to a high-sheen either side of the road. Notices all the political-party stickers in the windows are blue. Rolls her eyes at that. Hardly a surprise. More money round here than she could ever count. Plant-pot on the doorstep probably cost the same as her plane-ticket. Frowns at it. Looks like marble. Actual, real marble — for a fucking _plant-pot_. 

“Here we are.”

Pulls her from her musings on money and class. Little jag of her wrist to draw her to a halt outside a smart black-iron gate identical to the other hundred lining up the street. Squints at it. _Almost_ identical. This one has the same odd circular pattern as the keyring he’s dangling from his fingers. Black-painted metal twisted round in a jagged sphere. Crimson flecks picking out a shape. Can’t quite make it out in the dark.

Still staring at it as he lets go of her hand. Threads the key in the door-lock. He stops on the threshold, turns to look back at her. Brow quirked. Impatient. Imploring her to _get a move on_. Because he’s burning up more than she was on the train now. She can tell. Funny little episode back there on the street. He’s had a few of those over the past year. Never talks about them after — just wants to split her thighs and slide in slow till she’s begging him to let her come. Mm, certainly seems to clear his head. Hers, too — just for a little while.

Brushes past him as she makes her way up the steps. Hears his sharp intake of breath at the contact. Gives a gasp of her own as his palm comes down hard on her passing backside. Chases her the rest of the way inside. Hands on her hips and she’s spun back against the hallway wall before she can swallow the laugh smoking in her throat. Slides his thigh between her own. Bites her lip as she bears down on it. Electric, white-hot, fucking lightning slicing up the sky — the _feel_ of him pressing against her just _there_.

“Oh, _Jon_.”

Rocks his leg a little. “Like that?”

“Mm-hmm — _fuck_.”

Loses her words as he carries on that gentle motion. Thigh sweeping back and forth where it’s lodged between her own. Rasp through two layers of fabric; but she feels it as if they’re both stripped down to skin. Panties twisting up. Clit being rolled gently. His hands. His fucking _hands_. One on her hip holding her steady. Other at her throat. Loosely clasping it. Tipping her chin up so she’s looking right at him.

Lips feel bruised from out on the street. But she purses them at him anyway. Desperate for his mouth. Tongue, teeth, _taste_. He smiles slowly. Like a wolf. Fucking dragon in a cave staring at all his treasure. Whines at him. Rolls her head in protest till he burrows down his grip on her neck. Levels her face with his. Sinks a kiss that sends a flush of heat straight from his tongue to bloom between her thighs. Hungry now. Burning. Fit to burst. Breathes a word into his mouth.

“Bed.”

*

Pretends he hasn’t heard her. Likes to rile her up. Especially when she’s like this. Jesus _fuck_ , especially when she’s like _this_ — heavy-lidded, heady light in her eyes, so fucking hungry for him he can practically hear the heartbeat between her legs. Knows what she wants. Obvious. Clear as day in her eyes. In the way she rides his thigh with slow, steady rocks of her hips. Clear as fucking day. Still, he quirks a confused look at her. 

“Hmm?”

“Bed,” she snaps. “Where’s the fucking _bed_?”

Riled her up all right. Tries to hide the smirk burning up his lips. “There’s three.” Says it evenly, matter-of-factly even as he feels the fire in her eyes scorching up his skin. “You can choose whichever one you’d like.”

Barely got the words out his mouth before she’s pushed him back by his shoulders. Slid from her perch against the wall. Sneakers bouncing up the polished hardwood floor as she sweeps through the archway. He kicks the front-door shut. Follows her. Has to frown at himself to check his speed. Wouldn’t do to be seen _running_ after her now, would it?

Moonlight filling the living room as he steps into it. Little flicker of recognition in his belly at the sight of it. Bit of panic to accompany it. Wide, tall windows. White-painted fireplace inlaid with original Victorian tiles. Rug bigger than his apartment back in the city. Darkwood furniture. Tasteful framed prints on each wall. Chesterfield sofa —

Does a double-take. _Chesterfield sofa_ — with a pert, fucking _perfect_ backside in the middle of its roll-top leather arm. Bent up over it. Throwing a look over her shoulder at him as he stands there. Gormless. Struggling to breathe. Her white teeth cutting up the moonlight as she chuckles. Smoky, dark. Jesus _fuck_. Pain’s gone. Recognition for anything but _her_. Mm, that’s gone, too. 

“Here,” she’s saying. “I choose right _here_.”

Edging off her sneakers as she’s speaking. Socks coming off with them. Bare little feet scissoring on the Persian rug as she shimmies her hips. Thighs parting. His mouth waters. Actually fucking _waters_. Barely aware he’s growling till he catches its echo on the moonlit air. Belly-deep, rumbling up his throat. She gives a reedy little moan soon as she hears it. Ducks her head down. Arse up. Back arching. Whining softly. Desperate. Everything falls into place now.

Back in control. Because he needs to be. Because _she_ needs him to be. Nerves and truths unspoken the whole way here. Plane. Train. Tube. Burning between them. Neither of them brave enough to push the other to say it. Mm, but they didn’t need to. _This_ is the way they say everything. Share every worry. Every pent-up bit of anxiety. This is the way they do it in _their_ world. And it works. Jesus fuck, does it _work_.

“Three beds… and you choose a place where other people sit and think and read.” Lets his voice escape like cigarette smoke. Low, husky, deep. She practically convulses at the sound of it. “Have you no respect, Miss Stark?” Makes half a protest. Drowns out in a moan as he steps up behind her. “Of course you have no respect. You’re a bad girl, aren’t you?” Fingers biting at the leather either side of her hips as he leans low over her. “A bad, _bad_ girl.”

Quivers against him as he noses at her neck. “Mm, yes. _Yes_.”

“What do bad girls get, Miss Stark?”

Unintelligible whine as he puts his mouth to the curve of her throat. Lets his fingers trail the skin exposed by her ridden-up hoodie. Hooks them into the waistband of her yoga pants. Twists till the fabric rides up. _Knows_ it’s hit the spot he’s seeking when her thighs shake. Moaning now.

“Use your words.”

“ _Spanked_ ,” bursts out of her. “They get spanked, Professor Snow.”

“Is that what you want, Miss Stark?” Dips his hand beneath the waistband. Fills his palm with the pale, plump flesh already marked by last night’s handprint. “To get punished like the bad girl you are?”

“Yes. Please, _yes_.”

Smooths his palm back up to the small of her back. Rests his brow to her nape as he listens to her ragged breathing. Waits. Lets the moment sit heavy on her skin. Make her start to shift. Back herself up into his straining zipper. Scissor her shoulder-blades as she arches her back and whimpers softly. Waits. Considers. Decides. Lightning-quick, the way he moves now. Yoga pants round her ankles. Palm whistling through the air. Sound of the smack fills the air at the same time as her pretty little moan.

*

_Fuck_. She’ll never know why this feels so good. Why she still wants it. Again. Now. Then. Forever. _Always_. Thought it’d be something they gave up after the first dozen times. But no. No, no, _no_. Clears her head in a way nothing else can. Makes her burn up and shiver all at once. Everything in her trained on him. Every knot of bone. Twist of muscle. Beat of blood. _Everything_ tense, taut, trembling — _waiting_ for the sound of his palm, the sting of it, the soothing sweep of it across skin seared sunset-pink. 

Goes easy on her tonight. Counts out five, then lets her up. Not through kindness. No. _Hunger_. That’s why he cuts the spanking short. He’s hungry as she is. As fucking desperate to be inside her as she is to _feel_ him slide up to the hilt. Doesn’t even carry her to bed. Twists her round. Strips the grey sweater off over her head. Fights with her tee shirt as she fumbles with his shirt-buttons. Grows impatient. Painted nails ripping the fabric open.

Buttons burst free. Pop and scatter like pearls. Shimmer in the moonlight. Makes to complain — _it’s a Tom fucking Ford, San_ — dissolves into a muffle as she shuts him up with a hard, rough kiss. She squeals as he tips her back over the roll-top leather arm. Legs akimbo. Scrabbling backward on the plush cushions as he sinks down on top of her. Shirt half-pushed down his arms. Bare chest pressing against her bra. Hands snaking round her back and it’s off. Tossed to land somewhere near the fireplace. 

Nose between her breasts. Mouth lapping warmth at her nipple. Tongue twisting. Twirling the tip till she’s arching her back. Pushing at his head. Making him move to the other. Does the same. Little nibble of his teeth. White-holt bolt straight between her thighs. Writhing now. Some fucking sea-monster with eighty-five limbs. Twining herself around him. Tits on fire. On fucking _fire_. Yanks him back by the hair. Devours his mouth, bites away the smug little smirk quirking up his lips.

“ _Jon_.”

Practically whines it. Hates how wispy her voice gets at moments like this. Has tried to control it. Put some backbone into it. But it’s impossible. _Impossible_ when she can feel what she wants, needs, _aches_ for pressing against her thigh. Hard. Hot. So fucking _close_ if she could just swivel her hips she’d capture it. But he’s one step ahead. Palm round his cock, dragging it through slick, hot folds till she’s starry-eyed, breathing hard. Bursting. _Begging_.

“Please, Jon. _Please_.”

Smirk softening to a smile as he slides inside her. _Finally_. Stretches her out. Feels everything ebb from her then. Nerves. Tension. Plane. Train. Tube. _Tomorrow_. Melts from her. All of it. Thick, syrupy warmth flooding her skin. All her focus all for him. Flush against her. Lets her settle round him. Waits till she’s wriggling again. Scratching at his back, canting up her hips. Then he pulls back. Snaps his hips. Sinks so deep she folds up from the sofa, grapples her arms round his neck, pulls him down hard.

“I need — oh, _fuck_.” 

Skates his fingers down her side. “What do you need?”

“I need to come.” Bursts out in a shout-moan-sob. “You _know_ I need to come.”

Nods against her lips. Still smiling. “Patience, Miss Stark.”

“No. _No_. Jon — ”

Loses her words in a moan. Heavy, full, _sweet_ — the ache he’s setting deep between her hipbones. Shoulders shunted back into the plush leather couch. All she can do is lift her hips a little. Try and absorb his thrusts. Roll back as much as she can. But she’s practically fucking _boneless_. Sea-monster with all eighty-five limbs turned to jelly. Fingers clawing at her own throat. Biting at the heel of her hand as he rears over her like some fucking god in the moonlight. _Lord knows it’s time to pray_. Eating her own fucking words now, isn’t she? Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_. 

*

This is what he needed. Stop the blackouts. The lights bursting behind his eyes. Cold sweat prickling his skin when it all bubbled up to the surface. Dust in the desert. Contact. Chamber. _Click_ — no. None of that. Not now. Just her. Mm, _her_. Underneath him. All soft skin. Supple curves. Pushed to the very edge. About to snap and snarl if he doesn’t give her what she wants. What she desperately fucking _needs_. 

Everything a blur. Wide, tall windows. Room awash with silver light. White-painted fireplace. Original fucking tiles. All of _that_ a blur as he focuses on the sounds, shades, shapes that matter. Fire-streak of hair tumbling across the leather. Ivory glow of her cheeks. Pearl of her teeth as she nips at her lip. Moan making music on the moonlit air. Sparkle of sapphire as her eyes roll open for half a breath.

Hooked on his. Keeps up his slow, steady pace. Feels her quivering. Rippling round his cock. So ready it’s starting to hurt him as much as it’s hurting her. So _ready_ it’s starting to make him feel a little bad for not letting her come last night. Spanked her. Got her to the edge. Played at tipping her over. Then left her. Stroked her through tingles of near-release till they both went to sleep. Told himself she deserved it for dragging him back here. Been telling himself that all day. But now — _now_ all he can think is how fucking gorgeous she is. Mm, and that it’s about time to show her a bit of gratitude. 

“So far gone.” Nuzzles close to her ear now. Trails a thumb down her belly. “You are so far _gone_ , aren’t you?”

Gasp is all the answer he gets. Teasing her clit now. Circling his thumb softly as he picks up his pace a little. Jesus _fuck_ , the way she opens up for him. Thighs parting even wider. Legs wrapping round his back. Her fingers stroking the hand he’s cradling her throat with. Feels her nod before he sees the slight dip of her head. Keeps nodding now. Biting her lips. Moans filling his ears. Ducks down. Tastes the ache on her tongue.

“Was cruel of me last night, wasn’t it?” whispers it into her mouth. “Leaving you like that… all marked up by my hands but with no relief.” Trails his lips down over her chin. Sucks into the curve of her throat. Doesn’t bite. Not tonight. “So, so _cruel_.” Thumb slowing up then circling faster. “But weren’t you good? Such a good, _good_ girl going to bed even when you were aching.”

Still nodding. Huge eyes on his. Rolling her bottom lip between her teeth. Waits. Considers. Decides she’s been patient enough. No more. Deepens his strokes. Circles his thumb round and round till she’s clenching hard, heels drumming his back. Fingertips flying to dig into his shoulders. Crush him into a kiss that tears his soul clean-out his fucking chest. Hot, silky clamp on his cock. Buckling at the waist. Groaning. Growling her name into her mouth as he feels her wring the climax right out of him.

“Fuck. _Sansa_ , fuck.”

Collapses on top of her. Mouth to her collarbone. Feels the skittery beat of her heart against his cheek as he nuzzles into her skin. Humming beneath her breath. Stretching out under his weight. Fingers winding the curls at the nape of his neck. Bobs his head up eventually. Stares at her heavy-lidded till she leans forward. Takes the kiss he’s offering. Soft. Gentle. Glancing. He lifts a hand. Runs a fingertip along her cheekbone, along the curve of her jaw. Slips to the pulse-point beneath her ear.

“You remembered.”

Looks up to find her smiling down at him. “Remembered what?”

“No love-bites,” she says softly. “Wouldn’t want Mum to see _that_ tomorrow… would we?”

Groans. Then growls at the mischief in her eyes. Laughter smoking up from her throat. _Tomorrow_. Scowls at her. Then shows his teeth. Surges up onto his knees. Landing play-bites on the creamy skin beneath her ear. Doesn’t prick the skin. Doesn’t even _dent_ it. Still, worth it to hear her horrified squeals. Her limbs unfolding. Grappling each other. Soon her thighs are falling apart. Back inside her. Sweet, deep heat. Moonlit moans. Music on the air. Somehow, they both forget all about tomorrow — just for a little while.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flashbacks _begin_ ***** ominous music ***** drama and discovery loom on the horizon. Reconciliation, too — but not before conflict and angst and tears under the mistletoe… ***** ominous music intensifies— ***** will somebody turn that bloody music off please?! 🎻 I feel I’ve left it a little _less_ ambiguous than how I wrote Sansa’s trauma; still, I am excited to hear what you make of it all, my honeys. ❤️


	3. Barnet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Christmas Day. Coping mechanisms. Clock counting down. Tick-tock, _tick-tock_ … 🎄💥

_Tomorrow_ ticks along nicely in the end. Arrived on time. Dusky edge to the sky. Greyish-blue with clouds. Weather forecast in all the papers shouted _snow_ this morning. She squints through the window. Hasn’t seen a single snowflake fall yet. Midnight now. Rests her forehead to the night-cool glass. Lets her shoulders drop.

Back in her childhood home. Redbrick walls. Extension Mum and Dad saved up for years to build. Bay windows. Everything soft shades of cream, coffee. Tastefully-decorated. But cosy. Warm. Welcoming. Aesthetic to match the atmosphere they walked into.

Mum wrapping her up in a hug that squeezed her bones. Robb taking Jon’s hand. Shaking it, making a joke about their original _introduction_. Bran nodding from the sofa, red-rimmed eyes from his latest blaze-sesh. Rickon trying to quiet the dogs whilst squealing with excitement himself. Arya. _Arya_. Didn’t realise how much she’d missed her little sister till they were link-locked in an embrace fierce as their reunion last Christmas.

Soft breath makes her look away from the window. Gaze over her shoulder. He’s turned over in the bed. Splayed on his belly now. Bare back glowing. Moonlight, streetlamps — mix of both playing shadows across the slabs of muscle crammed beneath his skin. Her fingers ache to trace them: shadows, scars — but she waits a moment. Hovers by her window. Takes a breath. Lets her shoulders drop again. Thinks on it all. Her. Him. All of it. 

Wants him here. Really, truly _wants_ him here. Sleeping on his belly in the double-bed she whined and pleaded for when she was thirteen. Smiling good-naturedly at her brothers. Soft kiss pressed to her mother’s cheek. Sunny little laugh as Arya drew him into some political debate. Wants _all_ of that. Grateful he’s here. Happy he made a good first impression. _Relieved_ it’s all okay.

Frowns against the window-glass. Gratitude. Happiness. Relief. But there’s still a knot in her belly. Bit of tension not worked through. Doesn’t know why it’s there. Soft little moan from the bed now. Looks back to him. Shuddering in his sleep. Fingers twisting into the pillow. Flickers in the muscles of his back. Knot wrenches a little tighter. Who is she kidding? Knows _exactly_ why it’s there. Funny episodes in the street. Nightmares. Wall of silence when she even _hints_ at asking him the matter. Wants to help him. Really, truly _wants_ to help him like he helped — _helps_ — her. But doesn’t know how. Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_. She doesn’t know _how_. 

Can’t keep making it better through sex. Tells herself it for the hundredth time even as she’s sliding on bare feet away from the window. Can’t keep burying their problems in bed. Can’t keep blurring up the worries in her brain with his body. Hands. Fingers. Gentle touches. Hint of strength behind the softness. Can’t keep doing _this_. But she has to. Has to, has to, _has to_. Otherwise she’ll lose it. Her. Him. All of it. Tries to quell the rise of panic at the thought of it. Shucks her tee shirt off over her head. Slides back in beside him.

*

Dust in the desert. Radio-static. _Contact, wait out_. Chamber clicking shut. Clunk of it ringing in his ears. Finger poised. Weight of the pull. Eyes narrowing. Sweat on his brow. Everything focussed. Body tense. Belly flat to the earth. Back aching under the strain. _Jon_. Frowns at the sun-glare. Doesn’t belong here, that voice. _Jon_ …

Struggles toward it. Dream still heavy as he’s pulled from it. Soft. Sweet. Returning her kiss before he’s even woken up. Little hum in her throat as she feels him begin to reciprocate. Takes a moment for him to realise where he is. No haze in the air. No stones ground to chalky dust beneath his belly. No desert heat. Night-cool breeze from an open window somewhere. Her body. Soft. Warm. Wrapped round him.

“Sansa?”

“Shh, it’s okay,” murmurs it against his mouth. “You were dreaming again. Didn’t look too peaceful. Thought I’d better…” breath billowing out between her teeth as he crooks up on an elbow, dives for her throat. “Mm, _Jon_.”

Her skin. Flush of ice-prickles against him. Weight of her. Barely makes a dip in the mattress as he manoeuvres her. Slides on top of her. Warm thighs parting for his hips. Ankles criss-crossed over his back. He won’t speak yet — _can’t_ speak yet. She knows it. Won’t rebuke him. Won’t push him. Will just lay beneath him, body trembling with the want of it. Him. Her. All of it. His fingers in her hair. Tipping her head back a little as he pushes inside her. Thighs tightening against him. Gasp on her tongue. Furrowed brow as he sets a steady pace. 

Fucks the hurt away. Fucks the worry out of her eyes. Quiet. Soft. World away from yesterday on the Chesterfield. No spanking. No smirking. No smug words. No words at all. Just the sound of her breathing. Rattle of a moan smoking up his throat. Shape of her name. Soundless. Rolling round the edges of his brain. Chasing away the colours behind his eyes. Red-gold dust. Black casing. Muzzle-flash. Ducks from it all. Shelters in the crook of her neck. Lips tracing shapes on her skin.

Wishes he could talk about it. Knows he _should_ talk about it. But he can’t — not now, not yet. Blueish weight of years. Mm, and blue doesn’t belong here. Red and green and gold. Christmas. Family. Holidays. Happiness. Blue doesn’t belong here at all. So he bites his tongue. Black-out in his brain. Fucks her slow, steady, solidly; till they’re both limbs spilt haphazard across the bed. Breathing hard. Tangled up together, each working through their own little aftermath. 

Her fingers on his forearm. “You ever think we moved too fast?”

“We’ve been through this.” Keeps his voice sleepy, even as his tongue grows heavy; heart sinking in his chest. “ _No more_ and all that. You said you didn’t mean it.”

Hears her hair shift on the pillow. “I didn’t — I _don’t_ mean it.” Can’t turn to meet her eyes. Jesus _fuck_. Heartbeat a marching boot against his ribs. “But that was a long time ago. _No more_. It was nothing back then. Bit of fun. Your office. My apartment. One of us always running out into the dawn.” Fingers shifting from his forearm to the nape of his neck. “It’s different now. _We’re_ different now.”

“Is this about your new job?” Bolsters up a thousand little shreds of old arrogance, hefts them as a shield. “Us being at two different colleges — that what you’re worried about?” No tremor in his voice; but Jesus _fuck_ , his heartbeat is a mile-a-minute. “What do you want from me? A promise that I won’t fuck my new TA?”

Pulls back on his hair now. “You’ve got a new TA?”

“It was a joke, Sansa.” Winces as she twists the strands tighter. “Jesus Christ.”

Fire flashing in her eyes. Smoke hiding the fear in his. Because there’s panic — _real_ panic — in his throat now. Because they need to talk. Desperately _need_ to talk. Because he wants to tell her everything. All of it. Explain why he’s like this. Explain why he ducks things. Evades things. Puts up a smoke-screen nobody can ever hope to peer through. Wants to _tell_ her all of it. But he doesn’t know how. Jesus _fuck_. He doesn’t know _how_. 

Can’t keep making it better through sex. Sees the same thought in her eyes as is whirling round his head. Can’t keep burying his problems in her body. Can’t keep blurring up all their worries in a tangle of bed-sheets. Can’t keep doing _this_. But he has to. Has to, has to, _has to_. Otherwise he’ll lose it. Him. Her. All of it. And he can’t — Jesus fuck — he _can’t_ lose her. Tries to quell the white-hot rise of fresh panic at the thought of it. Swallows the little whimper she makes with a hard kiss. Slides back inside her. 

*

Back on their best behaviour by the morning. Barely slept. Lost count of the number of times she woke and groped the space between them. Searching for him. Rolling over. On her back. Splay-legged over his belly. Back tucked into his chest. Face-to-face bleeding into each other’s eyes. Each time, the knot in her belly unfurled a little looser. Never quite untangled, though. Presses a palm to her waist. Still there as the sun makes shadows at the kitchen window.

Forgets about it in the madness of the day. Rickon diving round the living room in a snowman jumper. Dogs ripping up the torn-off wrapping paper. Robb going all gooey-eyed as Jeyne holds the top he bought her up against her body. Arya leaping up to get the door later in the morning. Dragging Gendry by the hand to make his _hellos_. Bran grinning at the weed-grinder they found for him somewhere downtown. Mum _tutting_ and rolling her eyes to the heavens. Jon giving a half-shrug apology. All smoke-dark gaze and gorgeous fucking god-like smile. Starts to relax. Just a little.

Helps Mum with the dinner. Peels hundreds of potatoes. Steams carrots. Bastes the turkey. Harmless little chit-chat as they cook side-by-side. Sound of laughter from the dining room. Can pick out his chiming amongst them. Makes her smile. Shimmy her hips a little as she washes her hands in the sink. Ache of him _there_. Sweet, deep. Flame in her cheeks. Mum spots it a mile-off. She _wasn’t born yesterday, young lady_.

“I like him.” Eyes the same sapphire as her own; red-gold hair framing cheeks softened by a _real_ smile. “Little unconventional how you both met… but I _like_ him, Sansa.” Sets down the carving-knife. Fingers tangling together. “Dad would’ve — would’ve been pleased, too. Seeing you so happy. He would have _loved_ it, sweetheart.”

Tears trembling on her lower-lids now. “Thanks, Mum.”

Certainly seems to mean it. Laughs at his jokes as they sit down to dinner. She watches him interact with her family. Strange glow taking root deep in her belly. Blooming across her chest. Winding down each bone-notch of her ribs. Christmas music in the background. Fairy-lights on the tree. Baubles glowing. Red and green and gold. Rickon feeding the dogs underneath the table. Arya smiling up into Gendry’s eyes as he chews a piece of turkey methodically, looking down at her as if he can’t quite believe he’s here.

“Robb tells me you’ve got a new job, Sansa.”

Turns to the timid voice at her side, smiles sweetly. “Yes! Been there a few months now.”

“Different campus?” asks Jeyne.

Puts her wine-glass down, nodding as she swallows. “Yes. Research role a little way downtown from where Jon teaches.” Smiles at her sister-in-law. Means it. “I love it, though. Supervisor is great — and the stuff I’m looking at is really interesting.” It _is_. WWI poetry. Parallels to the experience of the modern soldier. Jon _did_ offer to read an article she was writing up on it a while back. Hasn’t yet. Doesn’t know why. Frowns a little now. “Good to be doing something a little more… contemporary, shall we say?”

Keeps her ear bent to Jeyne. Eyes across the table, though. Distracted by him. The way he’s smiling. Talking. Making that breathless, smoky chuckle that sends shivers up her spine. So effortless. Elegant, almost. Absurd pang of pride in the pit of her belly. Wants to wrap him up in her arms. Tell him _thank you_.

Mum leans forward in her seat now, wine-glass halfway to her lips. Harmless questions about family. Background. Hometown. Inexplicably, the tie of tension re-knots itself a little tighter. Jon doesn’t miss a beat, though.

“My mother died in the birthing bed,” he says in that sage, even way of his. “I was farmed out to relatives. Troublesome boy. None of them really wanted me.” Raises a brow, half a smile on his lips. “Then some things were discovered. Documents. Love letters. Father found. Died a while before I was born… but his family took me in.” Mist in those smoke-dark eyes; her heart quickens. “Little island off the Scottish coast. Grand old house. Rock-cut steps. Ledges overlooking the sea. All sorts of legends attached to it.”

Rickon leans his chin on his hand, enthralled. “Like the Loch Ness monster?”

“Hmm, close.” The way he looks right at her little brother, soft smile, soft eyes; she wants to _cry_ , melt, run to him. “Fairies. Dragons. That sort of thing. Never paid them much mind. Odd boatload of tourists in the summer. Day-trippers stalking the shores on foot. Never paid _them_ much mind, either.” Shrugs. Smile even softer. “To me it was just… home. Nothing magical about it.”

Bran nods slowly, deep in thought. “Magical you don’t have a Scottish accent, bro.”

“Boarding school. They beat it out of you.” Surveys the semi-shocked faces. Gives that smoky chuckle again. Hands held up. “Joking.”

Laughter follows. Conversation kicks back in. Everyone dividing attention between their plates and their peers equally. Not her. Not him. No. Eyes only for each other. Gratitude. Happiness. Relief. She feels the flood of each warm her. Mulled wine in her veins. Flushing colour at her cheeks. That soft smile turning even sweeter as he gazes at her. Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_. Butterflies. Not tension. Butterflies swirling in her belly. Because — _because_ suddenly she realises. She’s falling for him. _Fuck_. Properly fucking _falling_ for him.

*

Thinks he’s done pretty well. Been polite. Charming, even. Not dodged a single question. Answered each according to the tone in which they were asked. Earnest. Energetic. He’s exhausted. Fucking _exhausted_. But she keeps stealing smiles at him across the table. Smiles so sweet they melt away the fog blanketing his brain. Burn some sunshine through the cloud. Catches another just now. Stows it away for safekeeping as Robb starts a discussion about his line of work: private security.

Flicker of unease at stepping back into that sort of territory. Red-gold dust. Black casing. Muzzle-flash. Little too close to home. No place to duck, though. No neck to shelter in. So, he nods away. Gives a neutral opinion. Handles it. Robb seems satisfied. Deeply in thought, chin pinched between thumb and finger in concentration. Heartbeat quickens a little. But he _handles_ it. Skirts round to a different topic. Settles into a comfortable, non-threatening chat about rent-prices in the city. Mortgages.

Breathing a little easier now. Nightmares floating somewhere far away. Blueish weight of years disappearing amongst the red and green and gold. Christmas. Family. Holidays. Happiness. Bottle of wine being passed around. Glasses refilled. Ink-dark as the sky showing at the French doors. Takes a sip. Lets himself relax. Deep breath. Closes his eyes for half a second — 

Explosion. Gunshot cutting up the air.

He’s out of his seat. Palms flat to the tabletop. Breathing hard. Eyes raking round the sea of faces slowly turning to stare at him. Mouth so dry. But he can’t swallow. Can’t do anything. Radio-static bursting behind his eyes. _Contact, wait out_. Frozen. Like he was — like he was back _then_. Fingers flexing. Searching for something. Clunk. _Click_. Searching. _Searching_ — but then his eyes land on the source of the noise: a Christmas cracker. A fucking _Christmas cracker_ half-torn between her little brothers. Jesus _fuck_. 

Christmas music in the background. But suddenly it feels very quiet. He can feel it happening. Starts to count even so. Slowly. Halfway to a hundred. But his brain won’t quieten. Sixty. Seventy. Lights flashing behind his eyes. Cold sweat prickling the skin beneath his sleeves. Wants to reach out. Grab for her. Life-ring in a rising tide. But she feels far away. _Impossibly_ far away. Chest constricting now. Body screaming at him. Control. Get it back. _Get it back_. Somehow he finds his voice.

“Would — would you excuse me for a minute?” 

Polite murmurings. Edge of concern to her mother’s voice. Genuine. Caring. But he can’t hear it. Can’t _bear_ to hear it. Rocks back on his heels. Turns. Blindly. Finds the coffee-coloured handle. Ducks into the hallway. Shuts the door quietly behind him. Staircase right in front of him. Wraps his fingers round the slats supporting the bannister. Leans his brow to the bridge of his hands. Away from the red and green and gold. Blueish weight of years piling on his shoulders. Crushing the breath from his body. Jesus. Fumbling his way up the stairs before he knows what he’s doing. Jesus _fuck_.

*

Elvis crooning about blue snowflakes. Rustle of fabric as someone shifts on their chair, adjusts their sleeve. Door slotting quietly shut. Robb looking at her. Like he _knows_ something. Knows something she doesn’t know. Chin caught between thumb and finger, staring at her like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. Distracted by the intensity of those eyes blue as her own. Footsteps treading lightly outside the door. Creak of the staircase. She snaps out of her trance. Napkin pushed with her plate across the table as she stands up. Catches another set of sapphire eyes. Mum nods. Once. Firmly. Kindly. _Go_.

Finds him in her bedroom. Standing at the window. Back to the door. Turns as soon as he hears it click shut. They stare at each other. Paper crown on his head. Chest heaving. Fists clenched at his sides. Should look ridiculous. But he doesn’t — looks anything but _that_. Delicate. Damaged. Dangerous. But she isn’t scared. Not of him. _Never_ of him. Takes a step toward him. Hands outstretched. 

“Come here.”

Can tell he’s ashamed of himself at how quickly he’s crossed the room. Seething. _Furious_ at the speed with which he’s bulling into her arms. Brow ducked to her neck. Shoulders shaking as she skates her fingers up and down his back. Hums a little tune beneath her breath. Something soft. Sweet. Hand sweeps up to cradle the back of his head. Fingertips contracting and expanding on his ink-dark curls. Sweeping at his scalp. Gradually, the hammer of his heartbeat slows against her breastbone.

“I’m sorry.” Mouth moving on her neck. “I’m _sorry_. Prick last night. Now I’m acting like — like _this_.” Nestles closer. “I’m so sorry.”

“Shh.” Grips him tighter. Rocking on their feet a little. Strokes his head. “Shh-shh- _shh_. It’s okay. Hmm? It’s okay.”

“This — this is all just a _lot_ for me.” Hands at the small of her back, her waist. “Lovely food. Laughter by the fire. Family. It’s like another world.”

“Doesn’t matter what world _this_ is.” Hint of strength behind the softness of her voice; she feels him surge toward it. “We’ve still got our own, hmm?” Pulls him back gently by the hair. Waits for him to meet her eyes. “Our own world. Our own rules. Make it up as we go along — that’s right… isn’t it, Jon?”

Nodding. Staring at her. His _eyes_. Dark. Round. Like staring straight into his soul. “Yes.” Barely a whisper. “That’s right.” Still staring at her as she pushes him gently onto the bed. Sits at the edge of it, watching as she sinks to her knees on the hardwood floor. “Sansa…”

“Shh,” hums it against his belly as she fumbles with his belt-buckle. “You’re tense. Strung-out.” _Scared_. Won’t say it, though. Not now. Not yet. His eyes drop another shade as she unbuttons his trousers. Finds him hard. Hot. Harder still as she wraps a palm round his cock, teases a thumb over the tip. “Just relax. Mm, _relax_ — and give yourself over to me.”

Wets her lips. Draws him up between them. Watches him bite his knuckles to muffle the belly-deep moan rumbling in his throat. Shapes her tongue. Wide and flat. Soft. Pushing up toward the roof of her mouth. Bowing out again to suck him deeper. Salt-streak at the back of her tongue. Swallows it: single drop of need as he grows even harder. Hotter. Fingers scraping up his belly beneath his shirt now. Feels the shiver run through him. Other hand braced on his thigh as she holds herself steady. Bobs. Weaves. Hums the same soft, sweet, little tune beneath her breath. Nearly breaks him, that.

“Fuck,” grits out between his teeth. “Oh, _fuck_.”

Pulls back to meet his eyes. Tip of his cock between her lips. Tongue still rolling round it, tucking up beneath it. Lets it rest there as she stares up at him. Heartbeat between her legs; so wet it makes her shift a little on her knees. Try to ease the ache. He’s staring down at her. _Gazing_ down at her. Every scrap of his soul shining in those smoke-dark eyes. Another slow roll of her tongue and he’s shuddering. Reaching down to cup her chin. Fingers sliding into her hair.

“I need to be inside you.” Shaky, the way he says it. “Please, baby. _Please_.”

Bird-tilt of her head. Lets him pull her up by the shoulders. “We have to talk.” Whimpery little moan as she sits astride him. “Soon, Jon — we have to _talk_.”

“We will.” Nodding as he fills his hands with her hips. Lifts her up as she fiddles with her skirt. “We _will_. I promise, Sansa.” Breath escaping both of them in a hiss now as she sinks down. Feels him slide inside her. Feels so good. Feels so fucking _good_ she almost forgets that they have to keep quiet. Bites back her moan. “I _promise_.”

Doesn’t say anything. Just nods. Rolls her hips. Draws him up. Arms wound tight round his neck. Mouth on his. Kiss that sets her head spinning. Tastes the wine from dinner on his tongue. Rich, dark. Sweet. So fucking _sweet_ she could cry. Butterflies in her belly again. Fucking hundred thousand of them. Grips him tighter. Rides out the storm. Fades away in the flutter of a hundred thousand beating wings.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn’t going to post today; but needed a little somethin-somethin to keep my mind off the political melodrama playing out on my home turf atm. Enough of that — _onto the chapter_. Like I said, Starks are on their best behaviour (mostly) for this fic. There’s enough angst and ache and agony and I just couldn’t compound it by making the safe little space of the Stark residence a viper-pit. Don’t JUDGE ME okay. But yes. Things are falling apart in slow-motion — and (even tho my prose is basically _saturated_ in it) sex **can’t** solve everything forever, my babies, okay? A lesson our beloved Jonsa are about to learn… ❤️


	4. Soho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Nightclub. Grey Goose. Ghosts. Weird cousin-aunt. It’s about to go _off_. ✨

No time to talk. Nobody’s fault. Had to slip back downstairs before they were missed. Helped each other dress. Skirts pulled straight. Trousers re-buttoned. Sunny smiles as they breezed back into the dining room. Took up their places. Back to his charming, even tone as he apologised _profusely_ for the interruption to their Christmas dinner. Her brother watching him carefully. Same sapphire eyes. Something behind them. Understanding, maybe. Didn’t bring up private security again. Mm, maybe it was _him_ that saw the crackers mysteriously packed away before they came back in.

Cigarette between his lips as he leans his brow to the glass of a wide, tall window. Back in the flat. Hates it. All of it. White-painted fireplace. Original fucking Victorian tiles. Persian rug gone scatty at its corners. Darkwood furniture glowing in the lamplight. Chesterfield sofa creaking as he sinks down on it, cigarette-end flaring orange as he breathes in the smoke. _Hates_ it. Wishes they could’ve stayed another night at the Stark’s warm little home. But they’ve got a party tonight. Other side of the city. Exclusive invite.

Pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Cigarette dangling ash down his hand. Dropping onto the plush leather-seat. Closes his eyes. Grey-blue fog behind them to match the smoke billowing from his mouth. Talking shit. There _was_ time. Plenty of it. But both of them sat waiting for the other to begin the conversation. Coward that he is, he ducked away from it. Didn’t begin it. Jesus fuck, _couldn’t_ begin it. Didn’t know _how_.

Rocks up from the sofa suddenly. Eyes springing open. Walks toward the fireplace. Sucks in the last of the smoke. Drops the butt amongst the coals. Looks up — straight at his own reflection. Ornate mirror. Gold-edged frame. Dark eyes staring back at him. Brush of a bruise shadowing the skin beneath each. Exhausted. Fucking _exhausted_. But he’s handling it. Handling it as best he can. _Handle it better_ _._ _Handle it fucking better_. Looks away from the accusation. Steps back from the mirror. Smooths his jacket-lapels down. 

Illusion of control nearly shatters as he turns at the sound of heels clicking across the hardwood floor. Because Jesus _fuck_. Knows he’s standing there gormless again. Mouth agape. Can’t close it, though. Not just yet. Keeps staring. Gaze travelling from floor to ceiling. Trying to make sense of something so gorgeous — fucking _heavenly_ — in this dark, dimly-lit, hellish room. 

“Too much?”

“Absolutely not. Absolutely fucking _not_ , Miss Stark.”

Eyes meeting now. That smile. Red-painted lips slowly parting. Pearly teeth. Cheeks lifting as it spreads like sun-warmed honey. That fucking _smile_. Like he’s swallowed a wasp-nest. Fucking hundred thousand wings buzzing in his belly. Perfect. Every bit of her. Silver sheen of her gown stretched over every supple curve. Can see the shape of her thighs as she shifts on sky-high heels. Plunging neck. Tip of a love-bite just peeking over the hem of shimmery fabric covering her left breast. Makes his mouth water, that.

“Stop _staring_ and tell me how I look.”

Doesn’t stop. “You look like I don’t even want to go out anymore.” Meets her eyes now; both biting at their lips. “Jesus. I want to fuck you in that pretty dress, Miss Stark. Jesus _fuck_ , I want that very much.”

“Maybe later.” Breezes past him. Throws a smug little look over her shoulder as she pauses in the doorway to the hall. “ _If_ you’re a good boy, Professor Snow.”

Wasp-nest in his belly. Fucking hundred thousand wings flying up his throat as he follows the silver shimmer of her swiftly out the door.

*

Back of a cab. Flashing through the backstreets. Bright lights. Neon-glow cutting up the dark of the sky. Familiar. Comforting. Hometown — and just another city that never seems to sleep. Still, feels a little strange as they pull up at the kerb. Takes his hand. Steps out of the taxi. Shifts on her heels as he pays the cabbie. Glances at the building. Painted black. No sign. No comforting neon-glow. No bouncer. No queue. Hand on the small of her back. Presses into the warmth of it. 

“Not much to look at, is it?” Lifts a brow at the black-box building. Gives half a shrug. “I’ve heard it’s a little more colourful inside.”

_Let’s hope so_. Doesn’t say it. Swallows instead. “Who are we meeting again?”

“My cousin. Couple of her friends.” Other half of that shrug now. Indifferent. Flash of something else in his eyes, though. “Bit vague. But that’s Daenerys all over.”

Balks at that. “ _Daenerys_? What sort of name is _Daenerys_?”

“Dany for short.” Fingers flexing in amusement against her back. “Don’t be a snob.”

“ _Me_ a snob?”

“Carry on…” Lips at her ear now. “… and I’ll have to put you across my knee.”

Hums at that. _Please_. Whiskey-warm voice tumbling against her skin. Familiar. Comforting. Like the neon-glow of the streets they drove through. Inexplicably, it’s alright again. Can breathe a little easier. Meets his smoky, sexy smile now. Returns it. Lets him guide her to the door. He knocks twice. Slides open. They disappear inside. Coats at the cloak-room. Beckoned by a man in black. Checks a list, nods at them as another door opens.

Kaleidoscope of colour as they cross into the club. Midnight-blue walls. Red-topped bar lit up all the shades of a bonfire. Glad she’s worn this dress. Ballgowns everywhere. Edges roughened up a little with statement shoes. Big earrings. Clutch-bags sparkling on wrists and hips. Tuxedos. Male models. Bright, young things. Arrogant air about them. Few eyeing up her silver-clad curves. Wishes they wouldn’t — can feel him growling at her side already. Grateful for his don’t-fuck-with-me energy, though. Just this once. Enjoys the tails tucked between legs as those wolfish looks dissolve. True alpha’s arrived. They know it. _She_ knows it: shiver down her spine attests to _that_. 

Dark as smoke, the look he turns on her now. Hundred thousand wings beating as the butterflies swarm up from her belly. Flutter in her chest. Some distant urge to sink to her knees. Play a repeat of the other night. Feel him on her tongue. Hard. Hot. Let him fuck her in her pretty dress. In front of all these people. Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_. She’d let him. In a heartbeat, just to get him inside her. Let him do _anything_.

Scares her sometimes. What she’d do for him. Scares her to think he’s got that sort of power over her. Meets his look now. Relaxes. Because she’s got that power over him, too. Sees it clear as day in his smoke-dark eyes. The way he’s gazing at her. Fingers slipping from the small of her back to her hip. Squeezing down gently. _Feels_ it in the kiss he skates to the corner of her mouth. Alpha kept from chasing out the little wolves by the power of her presence alone. _Fuck_. Spins her head. Makes the wings swarm even more. Reach her ears.

Barely hears the shout behind her. Turns to find pretty, plum-coloured lips wrapping round a name. Takes a second to follow the soundless shapes — _Jon, is it really Jon fucking Snow?_ — blood and wingbeat buzzing in her ears. Heart sinks. For no reason. _Daenerys_. Knows it at once. Pale hair. Milky skin. Purplish eyes. Barely up to her shoulder. Arms unfurling like wings. Busses a kiss to a powdered cheek. Catches the scent of orange oil, something charred just beneath it. 

Knot of tension back in her belly. Shiver down her spine. This time, it doesn’t feel so sweet.

*

Keeps the easy smile fixed on his cheeks even as he’s scanning the crowds Daenerys leads them through. Back of the club. VIP booth. Grey Goose on the table. Magnum of champagne. Half a dozen thinly-fluted glasses. Flash of reddish hair as someone leans across the tabletop, hooks a hand round another bottle. Frowns a moment.

Soon as he recognises that flash of hair as Ygritte his heart sinks. Because that means the others will be here. People from the past. Ghosts. Old faces flaring at the edges of his vision now. Kicking up. Like dust in the desert. _Fuck_. Steps closer. Closer. Legs threatening to turn to jelly. Sees them all a little clearer now. Brothers, once. Bonded by an oath closer than any blood-tie. But he cut himself out of that happy little family a long time ago. Jesus _fuck_. Bends closer to Dany’s ear, clears his throat above the music.

“You didn’t say you’d invited — ”

“Snow!” Chorus cuts him off. Hundred voices all at once. “Our old mate Snow! Lord fucking Snow come back to walk among us!” Barrage of hands suddenly pummelling his shoulders. “You’ve lost a bit of condition, lad. Got soft. City life treating you well? It’s been years, mate. _Years_. Fucking _Jon Snow_ , can’t believe it’s you!”

Daenerys just smiles at him happily as he’s surrounded. Feels like a wolf circled by a pack of dogs. But he takes hands. Shakes them firmly. Bites back some of the same banter being thrown at him. Puts names to faces. Edd. Grenn. Pyp. Half a dozen others. Fly to his mouth surprisingly quickly after so many years. _Brothers, once_. Burned on his mind years ago. Brand he’s carried ever since. Bump at his elbow.

Flash of reddish hair. “Dany thought it’d be a nice surprise for you. Us lot back together after so many years.” Strong teeth bared in a grimace. “Tried to warn her otherwise… but you know what she’s like.” Wine-glass sloshed in the general direction of the bar. “Pretty piece you got there. I best watch Tormund like a hawk. Passed out already — but you _know_ he’s got a thing for redheads.” 

“That’s why he married you.” Pleased when Ygritte laughs at that. Means he’s skating the thin line between panic and politeness _just_ well enough. Makes a vague gesture. “I’m off to the bar. Want a drink?”

Ygritte shakes her head. Sloshes more wine. Slips back into her seat at the booth along with all their old friends. One of the boys still. Just as much as he used to be. _Fuck_. Red-gold dust. Black casing. Muzzle-flash. Radio-static bursting in his ears. Suddenly much louder than the music. _Alive_ now he’s moving amongst ghosts. Turns on his heel. Bright lights pressing in behind his eyes. Expects to find her there behind him. Warm, blue eyes. Furrow in her brow as she pulls him in. Sheltered. _Safe_.

But she’s at a neighbouring booth. Tucked in beside Dany. Red-painted lips stretched in a sweet little smile as his cousin gesticulates wildly. Flute of champagne half-raised to her mouth. Set back on the tabletop as she gives a chuckle. Can’t hear it above the music, the memories. Can only see the shape of it. But he _feels_ it. Smoky, dark; trickling through his blood like nicotine.

Jesus _fuck_. Just wants to be home. Her. Him. No-one else. Warm thighs. Soft moans. Silence. _Shelter_. Shouldn’t have come. Should never have _fucking_ come back here. But it’s too late now. Too fucking late. Knot in his belly tells him that. Wasp-nest kicked to shreds. Stinging up his throat. Finds his way to the bar. Somehow. Orders a whiskey. Sinks it. Orders another.

*

Those pretty, plum-coloured lips haven’t stopped moving. She watches Daenerys spin yet another tale. Wonders at when she stops to catch a breath. If ever. Smiles to herself a little now. Shifts in her seat. Head bent politely as she listens. Expensive champagne cloying on her tongue. Head full of a hundred scents. Orange oil, charred paper, metallic reek of vodka spilt across the tabletop. Change in tone makes her glance back up.

“Bit of a mess when he came back, of course.” Plum-coloured lips moving a mile-a-minute. Plummy accent to match. “Bit of tin to remember it all by, though. Suppose that’s something, isn’t it?” Purple eyes narrowing on hers. Contacts. Must be. Sunny smile. “Well, I won’t bore you with what you already _know_ , darling. I’m sure he’s shown you his medals a hundred times.”

Blinks a little. “His medals?”

“Yes, you _know_.” Gestures in a flurry of champagne-soaked fingers. “What are they? One’s shaped like a cross, isn’t it? Gallantry or — or _valour_? Whatever age-old fucking verb they inscribe on it.” Jingle of a bracelet. Laugh sunny as her smile. “Can’t remember the others. Mummy was _ever_ so proud of him, though. Kept her warm till she died. Dear old thing. Always telling him to polish them. Doubt he ever listened, did he?”

Lost. Completely fucking _lost_. Rabbit in the headlights. Blink-blink- _blink_. “Jon?”

“Yes, darling! Who else would I be talking your ear off about?” Champagne-soaked fingers clasping her forearm now. “Nice to see him settled. Happy. Like I said, he was a bit of a mess when he came back. Years ago, of course… but _still_ , it’s _so_ wonderful to see him happy — and with someone who seems so delightfully _normal_.” Pretty little nose wrinkles up; head bent conspiratorially. “Though do _tell_ , darling. Have his tastes changed much?”

Fingers tightening on the glass-stem. “Tastes?”

“Yes, darling, _tastes_.” Daenerys looks a fraction flushed now; like she’s tired of being patient with the village idiot. Sunny smile still though. About as friendly-looking as a dragon showing its teeth. “He had some _odd_ tastes back in the day. I stayed in the spare-room of the flat a long time ago. Heard all _sorts_ of things.” Lifts an elegant brow, amethyst eyes widening. “Heard a girlfriend call him daddy once. _Daddy_! Can you _imagine_?”

Shakes her head. Can’t speak. Champagne spilling down her fingers as the glass shudders with the tremor of her hand. Daenerys barely seems to notice. Launches into another anecdote. Financier she’s fucking in the _old_ city. _Ancient_ enough to be her _father_ but a _very_ generous lover. Shuts up with a squeal as the glass shatters. Explodes. Showers them both in shards. Plum-coloured lips parted in shock. But she’s on her feet. Amethyst eyes daggers on her back. Doesn’t care. Just needs to get out. _Get the fuck out_ before she collapses in a heap on the fucking dancefloor. Before she ruins the stupid sparkly silver dress with the salt of the tears that are already flowing down her cheeks.

*

Tries to turn as he hears an outraged shriek. Tormund claps his arm, wrenches him back, shouts it off as _women’s talk_. Slap to the back of the head from Ygritte for that. Roars of laughter. Finds himself joining in. Whiskey flowing hot in his veins. Blurring up the thorns of memories. Knots of tension. Frowns earnestly as Edd asks him about life in the city. How _Lord Snow_ went from laying on his belly in the dust to lecturing about John Donne in the big smoke. Explains as best he can — even though he hasn’t got a fucking clue himself.

Love of literature, maybe. Lofty bearing, probably. Luck, _definitely_. Found himself in the right place at the right time. Wasn’t sure if it was even right at the time. Just that it wasn’t _this_ fucking place. That was enough. More than enough. Worked hard. Invested a bit of his inheritance. Buried his past. Rest went from there. Control in every aspect of his life. Every _single_ aspect. No need for therapy. Talking. Shelving issues properly. No _need_ — they never had the time to crop up. Till her. Jesus _fuck_. Now it’s all overflowing. Mm, and sex won’t last much longer as a way to shut them both the fuck up —

Doesn’t say any of _that_ to Edd, of course. Just grins stupidly. Spreads his hands. Says something about Sam knowing somebody in the city. Hooking him up. Seems to do the trick. They all nod sagely. Drunk enough now that they all start reciting little bits of their old oath. He doesn’t join in. Honour. Swords. Watchers. _Brothers_. Feels like the past. Feels like a _lie_. Wants to get back to the truth. Mm, only truth he’s ever known. Her. Him. The world they share. Suddenly fucking _desperate_ for it. 

Finally turns in his seat. Frowns to see the neighbouring booth empty. Just a broken glass spilt across the tabletop. Champagne dripping onto the floor. On his feet instantly. Surging toward it. Staring at it stupidly as if she’ll appear like a magic trick. Duck up from underneath the table, _surprise_ written in her warm, blue eyes. Doesn’t though. Table stays empty. Turns on his heel. Dany just in front of him. Drying her hands on a bit of paper-towel. Line between her eyes.

“Where’s Sansa?”

Stares at him. Hint of anger amongst the amethyst. Something else, too. “She left.” Flippant, the way she says it. Shrug of her shoulders. Pout of her lips. “Was telling her a few grand old tales about you. She got all funny. Threw her drink at me. Stormed out before I could say another word!” Fingers finding his arm. Kneading it like a cat. “But don’t worry. I’m sure she’s fine. From these parts, isn’t she? I’m _sure_ she’ll find her way home.” Grips a little tighter as he shakes his head. “Oh, _do_ stay, Jon. I’ve made such an effort for you tonight. All your old chums back together. They’ve said Mance might drop in later. How about that? Your old commander — ”

“No.” Quiet at first, but soon he’s almost shouting. “No, no, _no_.” Untangles her fingers from his arm. “I’ve got to find Sansa.”

Smug arch of her eyebrow. “She might not _want_ you to find her.”

“What did you tell her?” Gritted teeth. Fighting the urge to take her by the shoulders. _Shake_ her till her teeth fucking rattle. “What the fuck did you tell her, Dany?”

Shrugs. Stretches her throat like a preening cat. “The truth.” Smiles archly. Sunlight and honeybees; the sting lurking just beneath. “Your medals. Your messy little head.” Cocks her own head to the side. Watches his reaction. Realises. Laughs: a cruel, bell-like sound. “Oh, _Jon_. You hadn’t told her _any_ of it? Well, that’s hardly _my_ fault, is it?”

“No,” he says evenly. “It’s mine.” Points a finger at her now. “But you had no right telling her any of that, Dany. Telling _anyone_ any of that. And this? Tonight?” Sweeps a hand in the direction of the booth. “Not your call to make. Hear me? Not your _fucking_ call to make, Daenerys.” Smooths his jacket-lapels, breathing hard. Turns back to the table briefly. Smiles at the shocked faces. “Lovely to see you all. Give Mance my best.”

Screech. Slice of nails at his neck. “ _Mance_? What about _me_?”

“Fuck _you_ , Daenerys.”

Doesn’t even look at her as he says it. Lets her gape at the echoes it leaves on the air. _Sansa_. That’s all he can think. _Sansa_. Jog-walks through the dancefloor. Checks his speed. Then realises he doesn’t give a fuck who sees him _running_ after her now. _Sansa_. Doors swinging open. Sprinting now. Full-pelt running down the fucking street. _Sansa_. Her name a mantra in his head keeping beat with his flying feet. _Sansa_.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah fuck _you_ , Daenerys — meddling little so-and-so… _but_ is this the catalyst for conflict and resolution? One, both, neither? Will our children FINALLY TALK?! **Allllll** that and **alllll** the angst coming up in the next chapter. Hope to see you there, my honeys. ❤️


	5. Oxford Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Running. Riverside. Smashed glass. Broken promises. It’s time to **TALK**. 💬

Tears have dried by the time she’s halfway down the street. Salt-streaks on her cheeks. Lip quivering. Forgot her jacket. Freezing. Fucking _freezing_. Furious, too. Furious that people will think she’s trembling because she’s _sad_. She’s not sad. Just cold. Stone-cold. Hard as stone, too. Scoffs at her reflection in the shop-window. _Liar_ , is what she is. Brick by brick, she’s falling apart. Crumbling. Fingertip to her cheek would see it shatter.

“Alright, love?”

Ignores the shop-keeper’s concerned look. Dons her best breezy smile. Nods energetically as she hands over the crumpled note. Counts out a few spare coins. Flimsy plastic bag twisted between her fingers, swinging in-time with her step down the street. Passes pubs, clubs, bars dressed up in varying shades of hipster. Few revellers spilling out of doors. Laughing through a thick fog of cigarette smoke. Watches it drift up now: twists of blue. Mixing with the Christmas lights. Red and green and gold. Blue doesn’t belong here. Doesn’t belong here at all.

Crying _again_. Shivering. Can’t stop. Great hiccupping breaths as she turns down a side-street. Leans against the rough redbrick wall to snatch some air down into her lungs. Blots it right back out as she slips a cigarette between her lips. Sucks on it desperately. Exhales. Blue smoke to match the shade of her heart. Her head. Spinning. Reeling. Blurring as she pulls the bottle out of the plastic bag. Unscrews it. Cheap wine cloying with the tastes on her tongue. Tobacco. Expensive champagne. _Bile_.

Spits in the street. Thinks how shocked her mother would be to see _that_. Dad, too. Face wobbling as she considers it now. No. Dad wouldn’t be shocked. He’d just give her _that_ look. All soft edges to the lines hard-etched into his heavy brow. Warmth in his ash-grey eyes. Bit of judgement behind them. But an arm outstretched. Big hand on her shoulder, voice rumbling up from his throat. Warm, soft, gentle — the tone he always used for his children. Laced with Northern smoke. Familiar. Comforting. _Home_. 

Grinds her knuckles against her brow now. _No, no, no_. Been through this a thousand times. With her therapist. Cosy little couch in a chic corner of a leafy square. Big glasses, neutral eyes; smallest smiles, encouraging sounds. Talked about Dad. Death. Anger. Numbness. Grief. Pain. Talked about it _all_. Worked through it. Shelved it. Ordered it into neat, tidy, labelled-off little sections in her brain. Leafs through them at will. Can pick a memory up now whenever she chooses. Cradle it in her palm. Set it back. No fear of it shattering. Smallest smiles, encouraging sounds. _You’re making real progress, Sansa_ _._ Progress. So, how come it still hurts? Mm, why the fuck does it _still_ hurt so _fucking_ much?

Hazy-headed. Nicotine burning up some of the wine on her tongue. Yes. Been through it a thousand times. With her therapist. With Jon, too. Nodding sagely to herself in her little alleyway now, bottle half-drained. Can’t remember when they first talked about it. Robb ringing him up. Telling him everything. Every little bit of her soul laid bare on the table. Took a long time to forgive her brother for that. Best intentions. Brotherly concern. Still, he was _wrong_ to do it. Just another man making decisions for her.

Growls now, lets the half-empty bottle drop. Spill. Shatter. Fucking _men_. Always deciding things. Always _dying_. Always _disappointing_ her. Better off without them… isn’t she? Still nodding. Like a madwoman. Grinding her teeth till she hooks another cigarette from the pack. Lights up. Shakes her hair out of her eyes. Silver shoes pinching her heels as she pushes away from the redbrick wall. Kicks them off. Leaves them in the alleyway. Sets her face. No tears now — only raindrops catching on her cheeks

*

Running. Like a wolf. Like a scent-dog hooked on the hunt. Follows the main street for a while. Doesn’t know exactly what sense he’s following. Just knows it’ll lead to her. That’s all he wants. Her. Her. _Her_. Pain in his feet, in his shins. Cold shocks of the concrete echoing up his bones. Wetness on his cheeks. Must be raining. Roughs it away with a finger pinched under each eye. Tastes salt as a wayward tear trembles past his lip. _Fuck_.

First raindrops fall a minute later. Splash down on his shoulders. Kick up in anguished flurries as his feet strike the pavement. Flashes past the Tube station. Ducks down a side-street. Raining hard now. Blinding him. Drops his head down. Bulls through it. Knocks into a couple walking hand-in-hand. Shoulders a clutch of party-goers out of the way. Snaps an umbrella as it catches on his arm. Ignores the irate grumbles. Indignant shouts. Because she’s close. So _close_ he can almost _feel_ her.

Dips down an alleyway now. Rough redbrick walls. Smashed glass. Something silver glimmering in a puddle. Doesn’t stop to inspect it. Leaps over it. Close. Close. _Closer_. Dodges a taxi blaring its horn. Slips down another street. Slithers out by the riverside. Stitch in his side. Grime-spattered shoes. Breathing hard. But she’s there. She’s right _there_.

“Sansa!” Rain drowns him out but he keeps shouting anyway. “ _Sansa_.”

Can’t hear him. Chest heaving as he watches her a moment. Barefoot. Stepping through blacktop puddles. Silver dress swishing round her ankles. Head tipped back. White teeth flashing in the glow of a streetlamp. Laughing at the rain. Squints through the water running into his eyes. Rain. Tears. Whatever the fuck it is. Swipes the back of his hand over them. Strides toward her. Catches at her arm.

“Sansa — hey, _hey_ — what the fuck are you doing?”

Means to make it gentle. But his voice is its own beast. Anxiety writ in every octave. Panic making it gritty. Wolf. Scent-dog. Hackles up. Practically growling at her. She tilts her head at him. Blinks slowly. Fingers still on his cheek. Gripping down hard. Nails nipping at his rain-washed skin. Anger in her blue eyes. Even as her red-painted lips stay gathered in a sultry, smoky smile. Laughs again. He balks at the sound.

“You found me,” says it in a sing-song voice. “Wondered how long it’d take you.” Frowns a moment. Something behind the anger. Something that scares him. “Mm, you hungry, baby? _I’m_ hungry. Come here.”

Slices at his cheek. Moan of pain muffled as she smashes a kiss to his mouth. Claws down to grip at his jaw. Tastes wine on her tongue. Blood as her teeth bite down on his bottom lip. Hard. Flinches but doesn’t pull back. Raises her brow at that. Tremble just beneath her left eye as she pushes him back. Fingers on his throat now. Nails leaving nicks in the skin. Could push her away. Easily. But he can’t because — _because_ he’s fucking frozen.

“You like that?” Practically purrs it; even as fire explodes in her eyes. “Mm, you like that, daddy?” Stone in his belly — sinking, _sinking_. “What you waiting for?” Other hand on his belt. Bunched into a fist. Pressing hard into his stomach. “Fuck me, daddy.”

“Sansa — ”

“Come _on_ , daddy.”

“That is _enough_ ,” shouting now. “Enough, Sansa.”

Sees that word shaping her lips again. Hands on her shoulders, holding her back. She fights him. Fingers twisting round his wrists. Nails drawing blood-beads up on his skin. Holds her through it. Presses her back into the railing at the riverside. Uses his body. Presses flush against her. She’s shivering madly. Vibrating against him. It _hurts_ him. Physically fucking _hurts_ him to see — to _see_ what _he_ is doing to her. But he can’t let go of her. Not now. Not yet. Holds her through it. That’s all he can do. Hold her through it.

*

Hates him. Hates him. _Hates_ him. Hates _herself_. Because right now he feels so good. So fucking _good_ ground against her. Invading her space. Making her feel small, _sheltered_. His hands on her body. Holding her. Handling her. Something solid in this shifting, endless ebb-and-flow _mess_ that is her mind. Finds herself tipping her face up. Eyes tight shut. Wordlessly asking. He skates a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Tastes salt. Her tears — his, too. And she wants to sob. Howl. _Scream_.

“I don’t know what Dany told you — ”

Like a shock of cold water. Breaks away from him. “This is not about _Dany_.” Torrents of ice pelting the fire singeing up beneath her skin. “This is about _us_.” Wants to hit him. _Hurt_ him. Run to him. Bury herself in his arms. “Me. You. _Us_ , Jon!” Wants him inside her. Fucking away the hurt. The questions. The pain. The panic. Wants to run away. Never look back. “You promised we’d talk. We have to _talk_ , Jon. Now. _Right_ now.”

He opens his mouth — but suddenly she can’t bear to hear him. Can’t bear the way he’ll wrap things up. Smooth things over. Set her heartbeat slower with his whiskey-warm voice. Velvet smoke words blurring up her brain.

She thumps a fist to his chest now. Hates herself for doing it. Does it again. Hates the bewildered light in his ink-dark eyes. The passive way he rocks back from a blow that isn’t even strong enough to budge him. The way he absorbs her second hit. Stares at her. Down-turned lips. Tears on his beautiful fucking cheeks. _God_ , she wants him so much. But they can’t keep doing this. Can’t keep running. She’s exhausted. Fucking _exhausted_. Fist unfurling against his chest. Fingers gripping at his jacket-lapel. Wrenching at him.

“Just — just who the fuck _are_ you, Jon?” sobs it. “Because I thought I knew.” Shakes her head. “ _Daenerys_ and _Ygritte_ and — and random men coming up to clap you on the fucking shoulder, though?” Fingers threading up to his tie. “Medals and crosses and bits of fucking tin. _Gallantry_. Valour. What the fuck does it all _mean_?” Soft now. So soft they both strain to hear her whisper. “Tell me. Please just _tell_ me, Jon. _Please_.”

“I’m yours,” he whispers. “That’s all I am. All that matters. I’m yours… aren’t I?” Reaches out for her. Fingers fluttering like butterflies the aura of her. Not quite touching. Fear in his eyes. Panic wrought in every line of his body. Terror in his voice. Pure, naked _terror_. She sobs to see it. Keens. “I’ll tell you anything. _Everything_ , Sansa. Just — just tell me that you’re mine. _Please_ , Sansa. Just tell me.”

“I’m yours.” Takes his hands. Twines his fingers between her own. Drags him toward her blindly. “Yours to keep.” Lips on his and it’s a kiss that tastes of terror and tears and something much more tender. “Promise. I _promise_ , Jon.” Arms round his neck now and she’s rocking up onto her tiptoes. Flush against him. Never wants to let him go. Butterflies risen from her belly. Pulsing in her blood. Keeping beat with her fucking _heart_. “Now tell me.” Levels her eyes with his as he nods. “Tell me, Jon.”

*

He does. Tells her everything. All of it. Beginning. Middle. End. Doesn’t spare a detail. Skimp a name. Sidestep a single, fucking thing. Troublesome boy shipped off to Dragonstone. Life as a teenage tearaway when he chanced to catch a boat heading toward the mainland. His grandmother raising him best she could. Burn-marks on her arms. How she’d never tell him where she got them from. Soft smell of her. Powder and perfume; lavender picked from the garden in summertime. Christmas at the flat in the city. Daenerys. Sometimes calling herself his cousin. Sometimes his aunt. Didn’t mind. Similar age. Played together when she came to stay. Got told off for chopping the hair off one of her dolls. Boarding school. Gradually leeching his soft boyish accent away. Bit by bit.

“Then I was sixteen. Suddenly. Years gone by. Like _that_.” Clicks his fingers as they walk hand-in-hand all the dark, dimly-lit byways of the city. “Teachers wanted me to stay on for sixth-form. Apply to Oxbridge. Get a degree. Doctorate… hmm, have the _exact_ life I have now.” Smiles softly at him at that; he tucks it away for strength. “But I didn’t want that then. I wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps.”

“Something to do with those documents?” she asks softly. “Love letters?”

“Yes.” Frown knitting his brow. Working his jaw. “My grandmother gifted them to me around the same time I finished school. Spent days reading through them. Found his regiment. His medals. Date of his death, too. Details of it. Funny how even that didn’t stop me.” Eyes dark as the night; not quite focussing as he remembers. “Enlisted the same day.”

Has to focus now. Try his best to keep his voice even. His grip gentle on her fingers. Even as he wants to clutch onto her tight. Have something solid to guide him through. Basic training. Prowling staff-sergeants. Commendations. Mud. Blood. Shit. 5am wake-ups. Little later on Fridays. First tour. Dust. Desert air. Oaths made in the starlight of a foreign place far from home. Honour. Swords. Watchers. _Brothers_. Bond closer than any blood-tie. First contact. Fear of it. Thrill of it. Initiative in an ambush. Bit of tin to praise him for it. Phone-call from home.

“First time my heart ever broke,” he hums. “Couldn’t show it. Not with her lying there so frail in her bed. Not at the funeral, either. Shiny buttons. Medal on my chest. Had a uniform to carry. Unit to represent. Got back to the flat and broke down, though. Decided I never wanted to go back. Not without her being there.” Clears his throat, frown deepening. “So you see, I understood. When your brother said you’d gone your own way after the funeral. I — I _understood_ it, Sansa.” Rubs a thumb across the back of her hand. “Because I did the same. Cut my ties. Packed my bag. Got on a plane. Didn’t look back.”

Except he did. Had to. Second tour. How it ended. Had no choice but to go back. Twenty-one by then. Bit angrier. Bit rowdier. First into any sort of fire. Last to turn in at night. Like a wolf. Restless. Prowling perimeter-checks. Fittest man in the regiment. Never still. Fixing this. Cleaning that. Stripped to his waist sparring anyone who’d fight him. Blood in his mouth the sweetest taste. Warnings from his commanding officer. That he’d wear himself out. Slip up. Hurt someone. Hurt himself. Should’ve listened.

“Mance was right. Happened on my next patrol.” Rolls his tongue over his teeth. Blinks a few times. “Scouting ahead of the regiment. Laid up in the dust on my belly. Trained on a compound as my brothers filed on past me. My job to watch. Seek. Shoot. Anything that moved.” Scrubs a hand over his face. “But I was _tired_. Fucking exhausted. Dust in my eyes. Shut them for half a second. Just to — just to _clear_ them. Happened then.”

Explosion. Gunshot cutting up the air. Breathing hard. Eyes raking the dust-clouds around him. Mouth so dry. But he couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t do anything. Radio-static bursting in his ears. _Contact, wait out_. Frozen. Fingers flexing. Searching for something. Clunk: cartridge in the chamber. _Click_. Pulled it back. Finger poised. Weight of the pull. Eyes narrowing. Sweat on his brow. Everything focussed. Body tense. Belly flat to the earth. Back aching under the strain. _Snow_. Frowning at the sun-glare. _Snow_ …

“I lost control of myself. For half a second.” Voice weary now. “ _Half a second_. That’s all. Nothing more. Nothing less. But half a second was — was enough _time_ for things to fall apart. Turn to shit.” Shakes his head. Like he still can’t believe it. “Orders came through. Followed them. Followed them _exactly_. Contact. Chamber. _Click_. Locked and loaded. Bullet in the air. But I could never get that half a second back.” Takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Men _died_ because of that half a second. _Brothers_ died.” Turns to her now. Finally. “All because _I_ lost control for _half a second_ , Sansa.”

Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. Looks at him. Dead centre. Sapphire eyes — her fucking _soul_ — staring straight into his. Won’t mouth platitudes at him. Won’t tell him she understands. Won’t _pretend_ that she understands something he doesn’t even understand himself. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t fucking _matter_.

All that matters are her eyes on his. Wide and warm and so, so blue. Her scent. Woodsmoke and faint tobacco and something sweeter. Her hair. Washed silver by the rain-swept moon: a hundred shades of ice and fire framing her face. Her heart. Wedged tight to his as they press together. Melt together. Moan together as he wets her shoulder with his tears, as she sobs into his neck.

Hold each other a long time. Sway together till the raindrops soak up the salt of their tears. Fingers twining in his hair. Pulling back gently till their eyes meet. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. Sees it in her eyes. _Yours to keep_. Weight lifts from his shoulders — then hits him square in the chest. Because suddenly he remembers what he promised himself all that time ago. That he’d do anything for her. Let her go if that’s what she wanted, _needed_. But here, _now_ , he can read the truth in her gaze, see it burning bright. _Yours to keep_. She isn’t going anywhere. He can _breathe_ again; strange how — in the moment before she looked at him — he’d forgotten he could do that.

*

Her heart. Fit to burst. So full it _hurts_. Softness, warmth — a thousand things pinching it tender at its very edges. Wine washed out of her blood with the rush of rain to her skin. His fingers tracing her cheeks like she’s made of porcelain. His eyes. Dark. Round. Like staring straight into his soul. Butterflies beating waves of heat through her even as she shivers. Pang of pride in her belly. Wants to ask him what he’ll do next. More talking. Therapy. Coping. But it tumbles from her tongue before she can properly shape it —

“Where will you go now?”

“Where will _we_ go?”

Doesn’t miss a beat. Transforms her clumsily-phrased question into something that sears its way through her breastbone. Joins the butterflies swarming inside her heart. And there’s only one answer she can give him. Just one.

“Home,” she says softly. “We’ll go home.”

They arrive a while later. Early hours of the morning. Her huddled into his suit-jacket. Both rain-soaked. Pools of water at their feet. Mum answers the door. Wrapped in a robe, softest smile on her face to see them there. Puts the kettle on. Stews the tea. Drinks a cup with them. Presses a kiss to hair red as her own. Cups Jon’s cheek. Leaves them to it; soft click of the kitchen door. Gaze at each other now. Quite openly. Everything laid bare. No lies. No secrets. Just the truth of the world they both share. Kitchen door clicks again. Soft tread of their feet as they wind their way to the bedroom.

She watches him from the double-bed she whined and pleaded for when she was thirteen. Bird-tilt of her head as he folds up his damp clothes neatly. Smooths a hand back through ink-dark curls long since escaped from their tie. Gives a soft little laugh. He turns at the sound, quirks a brow at her. She shrugs her bare shoulders.

“You always seem so at ease with the world,” she says softly. “Everything ordered. Your clothes. Your apartment. Your office.” Nods toward his rolled socks, stacked suit-trousers. “Everything has its place. Its purpose.”

“Smoke-screen,” he murmurs. “That’s all it is… all I am.”

“No.” Hint of strength behind the softness of her voice; he moves toward it. “You’re more than that, Jon.” Fingers outstretched. Sweet smile as she takes them. “You don’t fade away when I touch you.” Presses his knee into the bed, leans closer; she rubs her nose against his, touches the corner of his mouth with her lips. “Mm, same man still there when all the smoke’s blown away.”

“Fuck, I love you.”

Blinks at him. “What?”

“I — I love you.” Smiling and frowning all at once. “I fucking _love_ you.”

Can’t speak. Not for a minute. Pulls him down instead. Flat on his back. Her on an elbow, slapping a palm to his bare chest. Fire-streak strands covering his face as she leans down and kisses him. Almost angrily. He watches her hazily. Stupid smile lifting his cheeks. His beautiful fucking cheeks. 

“You _fucker_ ,” hisses it against his lips. “You utter fucking prick.” Rolling on top of him now; fingers lost in his ink-dark hair. “I _still_ want to be angry at you. _Furious_ at you, Jon Snow… but I can’t because — _because_ I love you, too.” Scowls at him as he laughs. “Fucking prick.” Whimpers against the kiss he drags her into. “I _love_ you, too.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Where will we go_ — yes I stole that line because I have no shame and it seemed to fit so perfectly here in my mind’s eye and _yes_ I cried whilst writing my own love-confession scene OKAY stop judging me. This was such a rollercoaster of a chapter to frame and plot and ink-up and I can only hope you honeys think it passable. There _will_ be an epilogue (it is already written) and a hundred other sequels to this (probably) because even if everyone else gets bored of this little universe I don’t know if I ever will. It’s under my skin you feel me. Anyway, I’ll stop rambling now and leave you in peace… until the final epilogue-chapter on **Monday** , at least. ❤️


	6. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > New Year’s Eve. No drama. Nothing too coherent from me either — I feels very emotional. Please enjoy and know that I am raising a silent toast to you as you read it, my loves. 🥂

**E P I L O G U E**

Feels like a dream waking up next to her. On her side, facing away from him. Hair a flush of fire against the milky skin of her back. Bare. Bone-notches shifting beneath the surface as he runs his fingertips between her shoulder-blades. Floral sheets. Little flowers picked out in multi-coloured threads: red and green and gold. Blue, too. Smiles to himself. Listens to the soft murmur in her throat as she begins to wake. Blue _belongs_ here. In the sheets. Mm, just _there_ in the sapphire depths of her eyes.

Blinking at him slowly as she rolls over. Duvet pulling back. Sheet slipping at her shoulder. Bends his head to her bare breast. Nose against her heart, kiss pressed to skin that smells like the flowers on the sheets. Glances up at her as he smooths his lips across. Settles his mouth on her nipple. Flush of fire in her cheeks now, too. Teeth nipping at her plump bottom lip. Her fingers skating his cheekbones, settling at his ears. Lobes rubbed between finger and thumb till he’s making muffled moans into her skin.

“ _Jon_.”

Thread pulling tight round his heart, the way she says his name. Her thighs sliding apart as he settles between them. Fingers skating down his belly. Palm wrapping round his cock as she frowns — tongue caught between her teeth — and guides him inside. Frown clears soon as he’s _there_. Catches her whimper in a kiss. Moans against her tongue, tries to fight the head-long rush cloaking his blood at the feel of her. Opening up for him. Like a goddess. Flame-haired _goddess_ pulling him in, holding him safe.

Sheltered. That’s how he feels. _Sheltered_. Storm at his back — but pure, unfiltered sunlight beneath him. Radiates from her; _all_ of her. Her eyes. Body. Skin. Scent. Warmth. _Heart_. Used to burn him: all that fire. Doesn’t anymore. Bathes him in soft waves of heat, makes him glow bright as that sapphire stare hooked on him. Sound in his throat — part-sob, part-moan — as he twists his brow against her own, presses slower, _deeper_. Finds her lips. Loses his breath in the honey of her kiss.

Fingertips on the nape of his neck. Sweeping down soft over the slices left by her nails in the riverside dark. Pulls him closer, thighs warm against his sides. Brow furrowed as they blink at each other. Her palm cupping his cheek, thumb trailing the little scratch beneath his eye. Shaking her head slowly, sorrow bleeding in her gaze.

“Shouldn’t have done that.”

“You were angry,” he says softly. “Didn’t mean it.”

“Still, I shouldn’t have done it.” Thumb on his lips. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.” Nips her thumb away. Sinks his mouth on hers. “Hear me, baby?” Sucks a little on her bottom lip; hips slowing up, sliding deeper. _Deeper_. “Nothing at all.”

“ _Oh_ — I like that.”

Draws back, stares down at her. “Like what?”

“You calling me _baby_.”

“That’s what you are,” he murmurs. “My good girl — my _baby_ girl.” Slow smile as she grinds up against him, o-shaped moan parting her lips. “You like that?” Fingers in her hair now, holding her captive to his kiss, his pace: slow, deep, _full_. “Mm, you like that, baby?”

“Say that — ”

Loses the rest of her sentence in a breathy moan. Head tipped back into the pillows. Full lips hanging open. Eyes shut tight. Feels like a dream seeing her like this. Always does — every single time he’s inside her. Like a fucking _dream_. That weird in-between world of wakefulness and sleeping. Everything heightened but smoothed-out. Edges blurred. Warm and thick: syrup in his veins bonding him tight to her. Those eyes widening now as she comes. Like an ocean opening up, inviting him in to dip, dive, _drown_. Takes a deep, shuddering breath. Does exactly that.

*

Breakfast. Tea. Toast. Mum scuttling all the jam-jars out the fridge _just in case_ someone doesn’t fancy strawberry. Finds marmalade, too. Sets it down on the tabletop _just in case_ as she flies out the kitchen, party-list clutched in her hand. Jeyne hurrying after her, scarf half-tucked as the door clicks shut. Robb leans back in his chair, smile on his face as he watches them go.

“How many people are coming tonight?” he asks, eyes still on the door. “Enough stuff on that list to feed the five thousand.”

Takes a sip of tea. “Mum’s got a reputation to uphold.” Robb turns to look at her now. She raises a brow over her cup. “Best NYE host this side of the city.” Takes a bite of her toast. “I’ve already warned Jon that she’ll find some sort of role for him.” Little huff of shared laughter. “Family effort and all that.”

“Where _is_ Jon?”

“Shower.”

“How is — ”

“He’s fine,” says it too quickly. “He’s okay, Robb.” Softens her tone, meets her brother’s eyes as she swipes the crumbs from her fingertips. “Left some of his things at the flat, though. Need to go back and get them. But I don’t think it’ll do him any good going back… _there_.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“Robb — ”

Jingle of a car-key. “It’s no trouble, sis.”

Note on the tabletop. Following Robb’s square-cut shoulders out the front door toward where his Range Rover’s parked up on the street. Roads are quiet. They zip along smoothly, pick up the main road out of the suburbs. She sits in the passenger seat, gazing through the blacked-out glass placidly. Hears Robb clear his throat. Waits.

“A lot of my guys are ex-military,” he says conversationally. “Most of them tell me it’s helpful to have someone to talk to.” Rustle of fabric as he shrugs his shoulders. “I have some contacts. Here and overseas.” Half-turns toward her. Catches the wary light in his eyes as he catches the fire in hers. “I could put Jon in touch — ”

“This is your problem, isn’t it?” Keeps her voice even. “Poke your nose into other people’s business. Sniff around. Spill some secrets. Back up with your hands held high like you never _interfered_ in the first place.” Holds a finger toward him as he opens his mouth. “No. You can’t _do_ that, Robb. Can’t reach in and press play on something someone wants to keep paused. Okay? You just can’t _do_ that.” Settles back in her seat, nods to herself. “You have to be patient. Wait — till the person you want to help comes to you and _asks_ for it.”

Drums the steering-wheel. “Is that right, Sans?”

“Yes.” Another nod. Firm. Quick. “That’s right, Robb.”

Changes gear smoothly. “Is this about — ”

“You know _exactly_ what it’s about, Robb Stark.” Lowers the window. Lights up a cigarette even though she knows he hates it. “Brushed it under the carpet last Christmas. But we never talked about it after that. _You_ never apologised for it, either.”

Wafts a hand dramatically in front of his face. “Apologised for what? Being out of my mind with worry and calling up to check on my baby sister?”

“Calling up your baby sister’s _professor_ , Robb!”

Has the audacity to _laugh_ now. “Mm, the _same_ professor she’s now sleeping with?”

“Like the way you met Jeyne is anymore _respectable_.” Hits at his shoulder as he tries to hide his smirk and fails. “Her dad sent her off to you for work experience. Fresh out of uni. _Still_ don’t believe that you’d finished things with Roslin before moving onto your darling wife-to-be.” Glowers at him as he laughs again. “You fucking _man_ -whore.”

Splutters as she blows her smoke at him. “Hey, stop that!” Swats at her with a lazy hand, still chuckling. “How many times have I told you that’s a filthy habit, Sans? Wish you’d hurry up and quit.” Rolls his eyes to the heavens as she sucks in another drag. “And you can believe what you want about it all. Me. Jeyne. Roslin. Years ago. Fucking _years_ — and I know the truth of it. Never mind what anyone else thinks.”

“Oh, so _you_ get to keep your own secrets?” Raises her brows at him archly. “And _then_ get to spill mine instead?” Flicks the cigarette-end out of the window; smoke pluming from her nostrils. “Sweet little deal you’ve worked out for yourself there, bro.” Flares her lashes, tongue rolling over her lip. “Very fucking _sweet_.”

“San _sa_ — ”

“Don’t you dare say my name like that.” Rounds on him. Frowns away the familiarity of that voice laced with Northern smoke. “You _know_ you sound just like him anyway and — and when you say _that_ it’s like he’s not even gone.” Shudders. “It’s like it’s _Dad_ sitting across from me all judgey and patronising — not my dickhead brother.”

“Sansa.” Softer now, fingers rasping the leather of the steering-wheel. “You’re right. You _know_ you’re right. I _am_ a dickhead — and I was wrong.” Knuckles turning white as he grips tighter. “I was _wrong_ for ringing up Jon like that. Wasn’t my place. Wasn’t my grief to share, my secret to tell and — and I’m _sorry_.” Sighs, fight leaving him; hands going lax on the wheel as they pull up in the leafy street. “Sans, I am so sorry.”

Finds his hand. Squeezes it as their eyes meet. Drink each other in. All shades of the same reflection: rubies, sapphires — pearls as they share a smile now. She accepts his apology; he promises he’ll try to be more _patient_ in the future.

Climb out the car. Start down the street past the pastel-painted houses, neat black-iron gates. He points out that ridiculous marble plant-pot she saw the first time. Laughs at that. Weight off her shoulders. Said her piece and _made_ her peace now. Catches his arm as they walk, fingers flexing on his sleeve.

“I’m not just sleeping with him,” she says softly. “I’m _with_ him, Robb. Properly. And — and I like Jeyne. You know I do. She’s really nice.”

“I’m glad,” he says gently. “And I like Jon. He’s a good guy. I trust him to look after you.” Catches her eye, matches her broad smile. “Trust _you_ to look after him, too.” Squeezes her fingers atop his arm. “Come on, sis. Got to get on. Else Mum’ll find out we’ve gone rogue from our roles and her whole party-plan will be _ruined_.” Laugh together now; start up the steps. “Family effort and all that.”

*

Note on the tabletop; jam-smear across its left corner. Reads it once, twice. Third time sees his heartbeat slow, breathing steady. Panic at not finding her here gently dissolving in the warmth of her words on the crinkled torn-off bit of paper. Smooths it out with a palm against the patterned tablecloth. Folds it up. Puts it in his pocket, frowning at his own softness as he does so. Then smiles. Because he can’t help it.

Up to his elbows in the sink when the kitchen door clicks open. Flurry of ice-cold air drifting in as Jeyne and Catelyn struggle through the archway. Wave off his offers of help as they drag their bag-laden arms over to the table. Shopping spilling out as the bags are thumped down. Their carriers, too. Red-cheeked, puffing a little as they scrape into chairs still bundled up in coats and scarves.

“Tea?”

Like he’s offered them a winning lottery ticket, the way they gaze and beam at him. Keep up their nodding even after he’s served them both a cup. Turns back to get his own from the side. Takes a deep, steadying breath — then a seat at the table with them. Draw him in effortlessly. Harmless chit-chit about lists for tonight. Guests. Cocktails. Countdown to midnight. Keeping Rickon away from the fireworks. Grateful. He is so _grateful_ for their warmth, suddenly. Their welcome. Thinks one day he’ll tell them just how much. Not now, though. Now, he can only smile.

“Thanks for tidying up, Jon.” Softer shade of Sansa’s fire in that voice; same little lift of her brow in exasperation. “Did they leave it a terrible mess?”

He smiles as he sets his cup down. “Not _too_ terrible.” Matches Catelyn’s arch-brow look as they smile conspiratorially. “Really, it was no trouble at all — thought I’d do my bit.”

“Well, at least _one_ of you unruly lot understands your role,” she says, soft eyes on his over her cup. “Family effort and all that.”

Floors him. Fucking _floors_ him to have her include him in _that_. “Least I could do was a bit of washing-up.” Somehow he’s speaking clearly, charmingly; heart a mile-a-minute threatening to burst in his chest. “Be a lot to organise all by yourself… though I don’t doubt you’d manage to pull it off, Mrs Stark.”

“I would ask you to call me Cat… but no-one has since Ned died.” Same tone. But he sees the sharp little shreds of pain in her eyes. Understands. “But Catelyn, please.”

He nods. Shifts the breath in his throat. “I couldn’t help but notice that photo in the hallway the other night.” Half-aware of the fact he’s not thinking three words ahead; for once he trusts himself to just _talk_. “I didn’t — I didn’t _realise_ that your husband served, too.” Smooths a thumb back and forth across the tabletop. “Same regiment as me. Few years apart, of course.”

“A _good_ few years apart, I should think,” she says softly. “Met him when he was on leave between tours. Practically strangers when we decided to get married.” Both hands wrapped round her cup now. “Bullets. Blades. Burns. Bruises — survived all that. Bloody car that got him after everything thrown at him, can you believe it?” Cracked, the little laugh she gives; takes the silent hand that Jeyne proffers. “Army life left far behind. Safe enough job building up the firm with Robb… but fate can be cruel, can’t it?” Closes her eyes a moment. Full of tears when they blink back open. “Do miss him, daft old fool that he was.”

Swallows thickly. “He was a good man. Your husband.” Thinks of the photograph out in the hall, Sansa’s stories. “Everything I’ve heard… he was a good man, Catelyn.”

“The best.” She nods at him gratefully. “Fair. Firm. Bleak as a winter’s storm sometimes, but always — _always_ the warmest man I ever knew.” Glimmer of sunlight through the kitchen window, playing on her soft little smile now. “But I’ve got my children.” Nods at both he and Jeyne. “And my children have _you_. Keeping them safe. Happy. He’d have loved you both. Truly, he would.”

Safe. Happy. Thinks one day he’ll tell her just what he’d do to keep Sansa exactly that. Anything. _Everything_. Move mountains. Drain the sea. Thousand other bullshit clichés. Looks into Catelyn’s eyes now, meets her smile with one of his own. Knows he doesn’t need to tell her any of that. She knows. So he doesn’t say anything. Just smiles. Means it.

*

House is full. Heaving. People _everywhere_. Uncles and aunts on all sides, distant cousins and business partners. Someone spills red wine on the carpet in the living room. Can tell Mum’s drunk because she just laughs, refills the empty glass as she treads kitchen-towel into the stain. Music blaring out. Fairy-lights twined round every bannister, book-end, bar stool. Red and green and gold. Blue, too.

Strands of cigarette smoke still clinging to his lips as he wafts the last of it out of the French doors, ducks back inside. She watches him cross the room back toward her. Shifts impatiently in her seat. Gone for literally two minutes; missed him the entire time. Just wants him close. _Closer_. Wants to be touching him. Thigh. Knee. Point of his elbow jogging against her as he lifts his champagne-glass. Ridiculous, she _knows_ it is. Mm, but it feels good. So fucking _good_.

Gives a sigh as he sinks down onto the sofa beside her. He turns like he’s surprised to hear it. But she sees the glimmer in his eyes. Sunlight through the smoke. He knows _exactly_ the effect he’s having on her. The trailing touches he’s been giving her all night. Fingers brushing the nape of her neck. Swell of her hip. Line of her thigh. All very casual. As if he was just highlighting an earnest point in their discussion of her upcoming research deadlines. Damn him. She is on fire — and he is _loving_ it.

“Got you another glass,” he says sweetly.

Leans forward to brush a thank-you kiss to his cheek. “I’m so wet, Jon.”

“You are _not_.”

Takes the glass, raises a brow at his smug expression. “Don’t believe me?”

“Not until you show me.”

She shakes her head at him. Teeth nipping at her lip to try and hide her smirk. He watches her, tongue nestled at the corner of his mouth. That magic fucking _tongue_. Bolsters her courage. Takes a sip of champagne. Balances the glass on her knee and inches her fingers up her thigh as if she’s adjusting her stockings. Skate of her nail to sensitive flesh. Makes her suck in her breath. Hefts her fingertip toward him: diamond-glitter in the soft lights. He licks his lips. Reaches out, circles her wrist. She moans low in her throat as he pulls her hand toward him. Presses her fingertip to his lips. Heady, hazy eyes as he sucks the very top into his mouth.

“Stop that,” she hisses. “ _Stop_ that or I will come right here. Right _now_ , Jon.”

“You wouldn’t — would you?” Pretends to be shocked as he slides kisses down to her palm. “Mm, your mother’s right there. Your brothers.” Tilts his head to the side as she stares at him wide-eyed and wanton. “Dear old grandad nodding off in his chair…”

“You fucker. You utter, _utter_ — ”

“Mind that tongue.” Sinks a bite to the side of her hand; feels his smile against her skin as she whimpers. “Or I’ll spank you so hard later they’ll all be able to count along with you.” Shakes his head slowly. “ _Bad_ girl… that’s exactly what you want, isn’t it?” They smile at each other now; something soft behind the smoke in the gaze they share. “Mm, but you’re _my_ bad girl, aren’t you?”

Slides her arms round his neck. “Your good girl, too.”

“Always, baby,” he breathes against her lips.

Kiss deepens for half a breath. Feels the shape of a moan on his tongue. Heat blooming between her thighs. His fingers moving from her hand to wrap round her wrist. Twist of ink-dark curls as she scratches softly at his nape.

Break apart at the chime of a champagne-glass. Mum’s voice. _Countdown to midnight_. Stand up slowly. Knowing smiles. Bitten lips. Dark eyes. His fingers still circling her wrist. Promise of what’s to come. Mm, she can hardly wait.

*

Follows her out through the French doors. Admires the view. Black skirt. Sheer stockings disappearing up beneath it. His hand, too. Fleeting little nip of his fingertips to the back of her moon-pale thigh. Mm, enjoys the little squeak she makes. Flare of her lashes over her shoulder as he smiles innocently. Settles his hand on the small of her back. Mouth on the curve of her throat. Breathing deep. Head full of her woodsmoke scent.

Line up with the other revellers. Breath smoking on the icy air. Drifting up to make clouds in the clear, inky sky. Casts his eye down the rows. Arya and her boyfriend cuddled up on a swinging loveseat. Jeyne running after Robb with a box of matches. Bran staring at the sky in silent wonder as if it’s already filled with flares and sparks. Rickon kept firmly pinned to Catelyn’s side. _Family effort and all that_. Heart a mile-a-minute again. Hooks his hand round Sansa’s waist now, pulls her close.

“Ten, nine, eight — ”

Feels like a dream standing here with the warmth of her tucked beneath his arm. Smoky breath-clouds. Pressed suit-trousers. Sparkly dresses. Children giggling. Like a fucking _dream_. Everything heightened but smoothed-out. Edged blurred. But she’s there to ground him. Make him breathe, relax, _feel_. No haze in the air. No stones ground to chalky dust beneath his belly. No desert heat. Night-cool, the breeze on his cheeks. Her body. Soft. Warm. Wrapped round him. Heartbeat a mirror to his own: thick, syrupy — slowing the rush of his blood, bonding him tight to her.

“You okay?”

Meets her gaze. Leans down to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Those eyes widening as he pulls back. Like an ocean opening up, inviting him in to dip, dive, _drown_. Takes a deep, shuddering breath. Does exactly that. Nods now as he kisses her again. Pulls her flush against him; bone-notches of her spine pressing into his chest. Sounds — shrill flares, explosions, gunshots — but he barely hears them. Sees them in her eyes. Flashes of fireworks sparkling alive as rain in the moonlight. Red and green and gold. Blue, too. Right _there_ in the sapphire depths of her eyes.

Clock chiming somewhere. Church-bell clanging. Cheers erupting all around them. Glasses clinking as the fireworks fill the sky with stars. Turns in his arms. Her fingers winding into the ink-dark curls at the nape of his neck. Lips sticking together as she pulls back slowly. Blinks those ocean eyes wide-up at him. Smiles.

“Happy New Year,” she whispers.

“It _will_ be,” he murmurs. “Long as you’ll be mine for the whole of it, Sansa Stark.”

“I _am_ yours, Jon.” Smile spreads. Slow as sun-warmed honey. “Yours to keep.” Finds his lips again, steals his breath, floods his veins with the sweetness of her smile. “And you… you’re _mine_ , Jon Snow. Properly _mine_.”

“Yours, Sansa,” he says it softly as a prayer. “Yours to keep.”

Feels like a dream gazing down at her. Smile warm on his own as he kisses her. Fireworks in her eyes: red and green and gold and blue. Mm, a fucking _dream_. One he doesn’t want to wake up from. Decides he doesn’t have to — not just yet.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How the fuck did we get here? Kinky little fic idea about a professor and a postgrad. Meant to be a bit of fun: spanking and navy sheets and nothing too serious. But somehow we’ve wound up here. Don’t know how. Don’t really care. I am just happy to be here sharing this weird little world we’ve made together with **you** : my lovely readers — silent or shouting from the rooftops, makes no matter — I appreciate every single one of you. I hope you all have the happiest of holidays, the healthiest of years… I will (probably) have a little break once I’ve finished [our gentle little world](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21839299/chapters/52119928) but after that I’ll be right back **here** weaving different threads into this tapestry of Jonsa we’ve been busy stitching this winter. Maybe I’ll see you there, maybe I won’t — it’s enough for me that you’ve read this single thread and helped to sew it a little more firmly into my heart.... so just thank you, honeys. Thank you, thank you, _thank you_. ❤️


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